


Stolen Time

by wolfiefics



Series: Court of Miracles [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Titans (Comics)
Genre: And that he has family other than blood as well, Dick finds he has blood family, Elinore the elephant is a gift, Florida, France - Freeform, Gen, Haly's Circus, Recovery, circus folk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfiefics/pseuds/wolfiefics
Summary: Following the events of being a prisoner in an Eastern European concentration camp, Dick Grayson tries to reconstruct his life and self by returning to his roots within the circus and his Roma heritage.  However, his search for lost family may turn up more than he bargained for.  Will it help him heal or merely open more wounds?





	1. Chapter 1

"Come away, O human child!  
To the waters and the wild  
With a faery, hand in hand,  
For the world's more full of weeping than you  
can understand.”  
"The Stolen Child" by William Butler Yeats

* * *

" _Mahrime, mahrime, mahrime_." The chant was monotone and the individual who said it in such a disinterested fashion was in even worse condition. Gaunt, sickly, bruised and scraped, Bruce Wayne hated to think what brutality Richard Grayson had gone through that wasn't visible to the human eye.

For hours, Bruce had sat at Dick's bedside, listening to the chant, which he discovered was Rom for "unclean". Dick obviously felt unclean, and after the encounter with the Yvestyan colonel, Bruce had a fair idea of what made Dick feel dirty inside. Rape was often used to strip a prisoner of self-worth and self-esteem. Somehow though, Bruce didn't think rape was as far as that scenario went.

Mentally shaking himself, Bruce slowly got up and walked into the main living room of Dick's Blüdhaven apartment. It was well furnished, with nice furniture and entertainment equipment. Dick had always enjoyed music, all sorts, and his CD collection was quite vast. Bruce wondered idly if music would sooth Dick's tormented soul, even for a moment.

He carefully selected some classical works by Beethoven and pushed the selection button to play the “Moonlight Sonata”. The gentle piano melody washed over Bruce in a wave of softness. He had always associated this music with the lightness and relaxation that he felt when the sun went down and the moon rose into the heavens.

Walking back to the bedroom doorway, Bruce peered in to see Dick staring at him warily. "May I take a bath?" Dick asked softly, almost drowned out by the piano in the background.

Bruce sighed. "Dick, you've had three today already," he began in gentle protest.

"I don't feel clean yet. I'm not asking." Dick swung his spindly legs off the bed and hauled himself up. Heedless of his state of undress Dick walked weakly into the bathroom. Bruce could remember when Dick's modesty caused several fights at school. Dick's sense of modesty had often made him the butt of jokes and teasing by many of his friends. What had they done to him that Bruce didn't know already? The shower water began running.

When the door shut, Bruce spun around. "Knock first."

Roy Harper pushed a stray strand of bronze hair from his eyes and snorted. "He knew I was there."

"That's beside the point. We're not to startle him," snarled Bruce. "We're supposed to make as safe a surrounding as we can so he can heal."

Roy looked at Bruce through speculative green eyes. "Do you really think he's going to feel safe just because we guard him 24-7? That's something he's going to have to work up to. What I'm worried about is that exhibition that we just got. That's unDick-like to the hilt."

Bruce ran a shaking hand down his face, trying desperately to keep the impassive mask in place. "I know, but we can't let it bother us too much. I take it you're here to relieve me?"

"Yeah, Lian's with Donna and none the wiser at what's going on, but when Daddy starts going loco, she's gonna catch on. I'm considering sending her the Santoses until this mess gets resolved." Roy sighed and set down his gym bag.

"That may be awhile," Bruce growled and then turned at the sound of the water shutting off in the shower. "He'll be out soon, wet and even more bad-tempered."

"He's got a right to be," whispered Roy, and then grinned. "Well, the bad-tempered part anyway."

"Call me if anything's needed," muttered Bruce, refusing to see any humor in this situation.

When door shut behind Bruce, Dick's head popped from the bathroom. "He left then?"

"Yeah, you can creep out now." 

Dick came out, towel wrapped around his thin waist. Healthy eating was slowly putting weight on his frame, but muscle was hard to come by. It made Roy want to shudder. 

"Repulsive, aren't I?" Dick gave a macabre smile at Roy's facial expression.

"No more than can be expected," Roy answered truthfully.

Dick frowned. "Aren't you supposed to make a non-threatening statement to my question? Isn't everything you guys do supposed to be non-threatening so that I can start feeling safe and blab everything that happened to me to you so I can heal?" 

Roy looked away. "Dick, you have to heal eventually."

Dick smiled ferally. "I don't want to. I want to remember that woman giving birth with no sterile equipment, blankets, hot water or fresh clothing. I want to remember tossing that little baby's body into the grave pit and shoveling lime on top of him to cover the stench of his rotting corpse."

"Dick, stop," Roy pleaded, his face a mask of horrified pain.

"Stop remembering, Roy?" sneered Dick, marching to the bedroom door. "I thought that was what you guys wanted? Isn't that how I start healing?" The bedroom door slammed closed and Dick's scream of anger and anguish reverberated the walls. "May all of you rot in hell! Gajos! Murderers! Leave us alone!"

Roy sat on the couch, staring at the door with a morose look. His heart was pounding as he continued to listen to Dick rant and rave.

At that moment, Roy began to wonder if they would ever get through to Dick.

* * *

"My turn." Wally West, also known as The Flash, walked sedately into Dick's living room and stopped short. The room was a total wreck. Dick and Roy were facing each other, both breathing heavily.

"Out, Roy!" shouted Dick.

"Not until you eat that! Don't make me do the choo-choo!" Roy shouted back, his face mottled red with rage.

Wally swallowed nervously and sidled over to sit on the loveseat to watch the fireworks.

"I won't!" Dick thundered.

"Then you will starve! And won't that really be useful!" Roy retorted at an increased decibel.

"What's that supposed mean?" sneered Dick, his blue eyes widening wildly. Wally held his breath.

"What a tribute!" Roy waved his hands around pompously. "The great savior of the Court of Miracles, starving himself to death because of the horrors, to join those that already passed because he wasn't strong enough to keep going, to keep living for their memory."

Wally watched apprehensively as Dick's already pale face drained of further color and he glanced down at the plate on the table, as if torn. Both redheads held their breaths as Dick made his way to the table, sat down heavily and began to methodically eat.

"Don't ever talk to me like that again," Dick said before taking a sip of tepid milk. 

Roy's mouth opened to snap something, threw his hands in the air instead and grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa. He stared at Dick consideringly for a moment before finally responding. "Fine, how about if I don't talk to you at all? Treat you like garbage under my feet, since that's what you expect?"

Dick's head bounced up and he watched in shock as Roy stomped out the front door, slamming it closed with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

"That was harsh, Dick," Wally said softly.

"Yes, but Roy's always had an explosive temper. I expect it from him." Dick pushed the plate away with a grimace. "It's cold."

Wally eyed his best friend warily. "I wasn't talking about him. I was talking about you."

"Don't you start," snapped Dick tiredly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Wally said, an edge of sarcasm lacing his voice. "I forgot, we're the ones who did this to you. We have no feelings and must heap on our pleas of forgiveness so that you'll deign to speak with us? Screw you, Grayson. We're doing this because you are our friend. Roy has been ripped up by this whole thing. He figured it out, you know."

Wally collapsed on the sofa, turned on the TV and began to flip nonchalantly through the channels. Dick stared at him one long moment. "What do you mean, he figured it out?" Dick finally asked.

Wally shrugged. "Roy figured out that you were in one of those camps. He really pestered the hell out of his government contacts. He exploded all over the UN Security Council about them not doing their jobs and trying to cover their inadequate handling of international policy concerning death camps and human rights. I thought Superman was either going to applaud Roy or kill him. He couldn't decide. You would have been surprised at Roy's outburst though. He actually threatened those politicians."

Dick continued to stare at Wally, who ignored it. "And?"

"He went from camp to camp looking for you. He made note of each camp and their details to report. Once he found your camp, he headed back. He didn't screw up, didn’t get angry, did his job to perfection. No one's more surprised than him. But, you know," Wally said, pausing his channel surfing on the Science Channel and the lifespan of Chinese Silk Worms, "he still beats himself up about the whole thing. He didn't go around harassing toughs too much. He researched, pulled strings, made contacts and went out there to risk everything to find you, including international war. How do you thank him? By yelling at him, being a general pain in the ass, and making him feel worse." Wally looked over his shoulder at his friend's strickened look. "Why don't you yell at us instead? We deserve it more than Roy does."

Dick swallowed thickly and got up. Wally watched him as he entered his room and the door clicked shut softly.

Wally sighed and began flipping channels again. With any luck, that little speech may have gotten through. He doubted it though.


	2. Chapter Two

Alfred Pennyworth tentatively opened the bedroom door and the covered tray of food clattered to the floor. "Oh dear," he murmured, surveying the room before him.

"Alfred?" Bruce's voice called from the kitchen area. "What's wrong?"

Alfred furtively looked around the room. "Master Dick's bedroom seems to be missing several key elements. Clothing, shoes, and suitcase."

Bruce's head popped out of the kitchen, brow knit in consternation. "What?"

"It's also missing Master Dick." Alfred turned his body so that Bruce could look inside at the empty bedroom. Bruce shot across the living room of his adopted son's apartment and stopped in the middle of the bedroom.

He stupidly stared around. "He's gone!"

"Yes, Master Bruce," Alfred said dryly. "I believe I've already made that observation."

"Look for a note." Bruce began rummaging around Dick's bedside table but came up empty-handed.

"I believe Master Dick would have been more original than that, Master Bruce," Alfred sniffed contemptuously. "I shall check his computer."

Both came up empty-handed. "Should we call Barbara?" Bruce asked, his blue eyes darkening with worry. "Maybe he told her what he was going to do."

Alfred shrugged, having no idea what else to do at the moment. Bruce reached to pick up the phone at about the same time it rang.

"Dick? Where are you? Do you have any idea how worried we are? You were supposed to meet us all for breakfast!" Donna Troy's voice came scolding over the line and Bruce smiled despite his worry. 

"Donna, this is Bruce. He's not here. I take it he’s not with you either?" 

Donna's voice was worried and irate at the same time. She and Black Canary were the only people Bruce knew that could have both tones of voice at the same time. "No, we were supposed to meet at ten o'clock. It's eleven-thirty now and it takes him forty-five minutes to get here."

"Where's here?" Bruce asked, sure he'd had a similar conversation like this before concerning Dick disappearing.

"Gotham Hilton. He was going to buy us all breakfast, he said, because he wanted to talk to us all about something. He never showed up, but our bill was already paid." 

Bruce frowned. "That's not like Dick. Making a breakfast date with friends, then skipping out." He raised an eyebrow to a startled Alfred. "He paid for the breakfast in advance, Alfred. I would say that's very un-Dick-like."

"Not the old Dick," Donna pointed out, "but that young man we rescued isn't our Dick anymore."

"That's beside the point. Dick is still there beneath the hurt, we have to -" Alfred jerked the phone from Bruce's hand and spoke.

"Miss Troy, may I suggest that none of you concern yourselves? I believe Master Dick knows what he is about. Perhaps he went somewhere quiet to reflect. He hasn't had that opportunity." Alfred listened to something Donna said. "Yes, we'll advise everyone should he contact us. You do the same. Yes, good-bye, Miss Troy." Alfred hung the receiver up and rounded on Bruce. "Do not hunt him down. Let him find his own way home." Bruce opened his mouth to protest. "I said leave him alone." The tone brooked no argument and for once Bruce offered none. He merely nodded and picked up his jacket.

Alfred coughed discreetly. "I dropped the food tray. We'll want to clean up the mess so that vermin doesn’t take over." Bruce sighed and put the jacket back down.

"Slave driver," he complained without rancor.

"You can do your own laundry now, though, can you not?" Alfred asked with a haughty expression. Bruce wisely kept his mouth shut.

* * *

Haly's Circus will always been home, no matter where I am or how old I become. I think it has something to do with the fact that my parents were so devoted to the show. I know for a fact that they had been approached by bigger circuses to leave Pop's outfit, but they always turned down the offers. Dad told me once that the circus was more than just a profession; it was a family and family stuck together.

Bruce had been skeptical when I purchased Haly's Circus. The show was going bust. Pop just couldn't keep a small time circus afloat in today's technologically based society. Video games and virtual reality games seem to make circuses old-fashioned, but circuses are still big with the little kids and the older generations who want to remember times gone by.

I worked with Pop to modernize the show, keeping the traditional acts and throwing in more exciting attractions. Fire-eaters and clowns worked side by side with top-notch illusionists and cannon-flyers. The acrobats are more advanced with more participants doing multiple things at once. Every one of those acts, though, are top-quality and professional. No amateurs or cornball stuff here at Haly's Circus. Ticket prices are fair and concessions aren't outrageous, making it accessible to all walks of life. Haly's Circus often benefits charity auctions and one summer we followed Musikapalooza around the country. 

Pop had mentioned setting up a small sub-circus of old-fashioned performers and attractions for Renaissance Faires around the nation. I remember agreeing with the idea as RenFaires are a big attraction and people attend them in record numbers. 

After Wally berated me for being a grouch to Roy, I spent a week thinking about everything. The reason I felt so defensive wasn't because my friends and family were babying me, trying to heal me and be there for me if ever needed; it was because I felt inadequate and alone. None of them really understood. None of them shared my background. In fact, only Roy would have the smallest inkling, given the fact that he was raised by Native Americans…yet the Rom aren’t Navajo.

Many people in the circus share my background, though. Rom heritage is still strong in many old circuses and Haly's is no different. My father worked there. My father's father was with Haly’s. In fact, the Graysons’ history with circuses goes back to 18th century Britain. There would be folk here who would at least more understand my situation. 

So there I was, hoping to find some peace for my tortured soul.

"Dicky!" Pop Haly came shooting out of his trailer and toward me. His hair was sticking out in different directions, telling me he'd been trying to work on the receipts from yesterday's show. "Dicky, you're okay?" Pop looked me over anxiously before enveloping me in a huge bear hug. I returned it, feeling hundreds of years older than the little boy he had once hugged the same way.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I said, burying my head in his shoulder a moment, letting the little boy come forward. "I-I just felt the need to come home."

Pop seemed to sense my distress because he hugged me tighter and then began pulling me toward his trailer. I could feel my lower lip tremble and my eyes begin to tear. Though I had cried buckets of tears and screamed with rage at the injustice of it all several times a day since The Court of Miracles' rescue, it had never seemed like a release of the emotion pent-up within me.

"Come, Dick, you are home and we'll keep you safe. It's always good to come to the bosom of family in times of need." Pop's voice was warmly reassuring and was the last straw. 

I broke down, sinking to my knees, sobbing my heart out. Pop kneeled behind me and listened as I told him almost everything, almost every horrible thing that happened. I doubt I made much sense, it was so jumbled in my mind, but he still listened. He wasn't analytical, he wasn't rational, he wasn't emotional, he wasn't pitying; he was just there, listening.

No one had done that for me. Bruce and Tim listened with the practiced ears of investigators, like they were listening to a witness. Barbara, Donna, and Roy grew enraged and erupted, making me feel inadequate in expressing my feelings. Alfred, with all his paternal attitudes, made me feel like a soldier who should buck up and not let the enemy know how much they got to me. Wally and Garth merely stood by, waiting for the storm to pass, but it never did.

No one ever listened.

I finished blubbering all over Pop and he lifted my chin, wiping my tears in a fatherly gesture. "They are beasts, Dick." He shook his head. "No, worse. No animal is that cruel to another. Only man can do such damage to it's own species for such foolish reasons. There is no rhyme or reason to it and I can't explain it away to make you feel better." He smiled sadly at me, only sympathy in his eyes. There was no trace of pity or that shadow of fear that everyone else had.

"Come," he said simply, pulling me to my feet. "You need a cup of tea." I numbly followed him back to his trailer.

It was cluttered, as usual, with papers and knick-knacks strewn everywhere. Pop's trailer was never filthy, trash was never lying around. It was just unorganized but he knew where everything was. The Pop Haly Filing System, my mother had jokingly called it.

"Some things never change," I commented as he moved a stack of old receipts from the couch and pushed me gently down.

"Why should they?" he asked as he filled a teapot and set it on the electric stove. "Routine is good. It calms the soul and the mind."

"I suppose," I replied dully.

He glanced at me. "Did you ever know how I got into the circus, Dick?" he asked in a casual manner, sitting in his desk chair and idly flipping through receipts. His studious manner of not giving me his full attention made me relax. There was no pressure, just companionship. He wasn't going to pressure me into telling all the nasty details and my feelings on what happened to me. Everyone walked on eggshells around me (well, except Roy when he lost his temper), but Pop was going to treat me like little Dicky Grayson, just as he always had.

I relaxed, tipped my head back and closed my eyes. It was good to be home. "No," I said vaguely. "I don't think so."

"My mother and father were Jewish. Their families had moved to America before Hitler's Final Solution, but some of their relations had stayed behind in Poland and Germany. Most never survived, but some did. That was the way of it." I opened one eye in time to see Pop shrug fatalistically. The pot on the stove began to whistle and he got up.

As he fixed our tea mugs, he continued. "One of my father's cousins had been at Krakow with some circus Gypsies. They all made it out okay, thankfully, and came to America. They were close by then, you see, and the Gypsies were enamored of the idea of starting a circus in the land of the free and the home of the brave." Pop turned twinkling brown eyes on me as he handed me the lemon tea with a hint of sweetener and milk, just the way I've always liked it. 

I merely breathed the aromatic fumes a moment and we sat in companionable silence for a few moments. "Let me guess, they succeeded with their circus and your family handled the business end of it?"

Pop chuckled. "You always had a quick mind, Dicky. Your mom did too. Your father was flighty as a squirrel. Intelligent and quick, but he couldn't hold a thought for more than five minutes unless it had to do with flying."

I smiled. He was right. Dad remembered perfectly every routine he'd ever done or seen, but if asked to recite through the multiplication table he would give you a blank look. Mom had been a dental assistant and she had loved anything scientific, especially numbers or science.

"My father quickly fell in love with the circus life." Pop gave a laugh. "He went with them every chance he could and through him the rest of us got the bug. Those Gypsies, though, they were even more ramblers. Must be something in the bloodline. They actively looked for the best, knew what they wanted for their circus." Pop sipped his tea. "They came across your dad's dad and lulled him away from the big circus he was with at the time. Your dad would have been a little punk at the time. Yeah, old Harry Grayson was the best at tightrope walking and acrobatics. Better than your dad ever was. I remember watching him when I was a kid. He was dashing, handsome, and very agile. You're more like your grandpa than your dad, truth be told. You both have instinctive grace and you don't have to work much. Your dad was pleased as punch when you surpassed what he could do when you were a kid."

I smiled wistfully, wondering what my father would think of my ability now if he could see it.

Pop idly stared out the window as he continued to talk. "Anyway, that's how your family came to be with my family's circus. The Gypsies moved on, as they sometimes do, but your dad stayed on. Your grandfather died in a car crash. Your dad was broke up about that for weeks but he recovered. Said flying helped him feel like his dad was with him, helping get over his death. Then he met your mother and she joined us. Had a natural talent for flying." Pop gave me a crooked grin. "You can figure out the rest."

I nodded, taking a sip from my teacup. "Yeah. Ever hear anything from the Gypsy family that started the circus?"

Pop nodded. "Yeah, they moved back to Europe, France I think. They had family there. Your grandmother went with them."

My head bounced up in shock. "My grandmother?" I asked stupidly.

Pop gave me a mysterious smile. "Yes, your grandmother. You think your dad showed up in the cabbage patch?"

I flushed. "Well, no, but he never mentioned his mother much."

"He wouldn't have, I suppose. Very bitter about her leaving him and his dad. Your grandpa was very oriented toward the traditional Rom gender roles. His family had lived with outsiders so long but they had not lost some of that which was Rom. He had the language, the looks, the quick-wit and mind, yet no connections to non-circus gypsies. Your grandmother was sophisticated and educated, his opposite. I think your grandmother fell in love with his charm and the fact that he was with the circus. The only time she actually did what your grandfather said was when he told her if she wanted to go with her family, he wouldn't stop her. I don't think old Harry thought she'd actually leave him and their son, but she did. Your dad always referred to her as 'my mother' or, more often, 'my father's wife'."

Something clicked in my head. I remembered Dad mentioning "my father's wife". "I remember him saying that," I told Pop. "I always thought maybe Grandpa had married another woman other than Dad's mother."

Pop shook his head. "No, your father just never forgave his mother for deserting them. While your father adored your grandfather, Harry wasn't exactly prime parent material. Like your father, Dick, he was flighty and quite the ladies’ man."

I leaned forward. "Do you think my grandmother is still alive?" I asked eagerly.

Pop shrugged. "No clue. I would imagine so. She was considerably younger than your grandfather. He was in his forties when your dad was born. Where you'd look for her, I have no clue."

I leaned back again, thinking. "Is there anyone that they associated with that is still around?"

Pop thought a moment. "Not with Haly's and Three Ring Productions has been out of business for thirty years. I think," Pop's brow creased, "that a couple of the old-timers might be down in Florida with the rest of the old retirees. You know, the side show freaks and stuff. They have a retirement community down there. Gertie the Tattooed Lady is still alive, I know. They called her Global Gertie. She was round and tattooed with the globe." Pop wiggled his eyebrows. "She was quite the scandal in her day." 

I couldn't help but grin in response. "I can imagine she'd be a shock today too." We grinned at each other.

"Yeah, those were the days." We sat back in companionable silence for a very long while, sipping our cooling tea and staring blankly at the wall. After a bit, Pop stirred. "You staying here or got a hotel room?"

I hesitated. I hadn't thought that far, in truth, and was loathe admitting it. Pop saw through me, though. "I'll clear out a spot in the old stand-by trailer," he chuckled. "We never know when we're going to pick up an extra act and they need someplace to crash." I nodded. "Why don't you wander around? Some of the people have been asking after you. Knew you'd been through a rough time. They'll be glad to see you, Dicky." Pop patted my knee as he got to his feet.

I rose as well and put my mug in the sink. "Sounds good," I agreed. "Elinore still around?" I asked casually, knowing the answer and also knowing the laugh Pop would get from my question.

Pop laughed. "Yeah and you better visit her too. She'll be irate if you don't."

I laughed as we exited the trailer. Pop moved off one direction and I went another. I moved from trailer to trailer, knocking on doors and being enveloped into cocoons of welcoming smiles and tender admonishments to always watch my back.

"Ah, Dicky," the strongman was telling me, "we was worried 'bout ya, don't you disbelieve that, but we knew you'd be okay. Your dad was a fighter, though he was a bit scrawny in the shoulders." The strongman flexed his muscles a bit to show off his own strength. "You is a lot like your dad. We knew you'd come through all right."

"Yes, and look at him now, bustling about here like he owned the place." Pop moved into the porch light of the strongman's RV. "Get to bed, kid, or I'll turn you over my knee. Been looking for you all over the place. I said stroll not wake everyone up!"

I laughed and shook my head. "Yes sir. I still have to say hi to Elinore first."

Pop gave me long look. "Then you get to bed. You look like you haven't slept in days."

I dutifully nodded and moved to the cages. The elephants were grouped together but Elinore always had her own spot. She'd been with Haly's Circus as long as I could remember and was undoubtedly a very old elephant.

She snorted when I moved toward her pen and lumbered toward me, her trunk reaching across the fencing to brush my shoulder. "Hey, old girl, it's Dicky." She blew hair out of her trunk in a decidedly perturbed manner, as if telling me she could see that it was 'Dicky'. "You been a good elephant?" I always talked nonsense to Elinore. I don't know why. I never did to any of the other animals I'd befriended in the circus. "I missed you, old girl. It's been a rough year. Did anyone tell you?" Her trunk gently ruffled my hair and tears stung my eyes again. 

"They hurt me, Elinore," I mumbled. "I let them do it, though, to help other people, but they hurt me so bad." I grabbed the end of her waving trunk and stroked it gently, trying to calm myself. "You know, when they were hurting me? I would slip into this trance-like state and I'd remember all the fun things I'd done. I especially remembered you, Elinore. Riding on top of you during the parades, the water fights we'd have when we were giving you a bath, sneaking popcorn and peanuts to you when I knew I wasn't supposed to, and climbing around on you when I was too small to be with Mom and Dad." I sniffled a bit. "You kept me grounded during that horrible time, Elinore. All those memories of you made me remember who I was and where I came from. Made me remember that I'm loved no matter what those monsters said. You'll always love me, won't you, Elinore?" 

I felt foolish asking the question, but Elinore grunted softly and pulled her trunk from my hands, brushing my hair again in a motherly gesture. "I thought you would," I said as if she had answered. In a way, she had, that old elephant. "I better get to bed now before Pop comes hunting me down again. I'll give you a bath in the morning, okay, Elinore?" She pulled her trunk away and I saw her shiny black eyes staring at me unblinkingly. "Yeah I'll be here. I promise. But not for long. I'm going to go find my grandmother." Elinore's head bobbed up and down. "Yeah," I said, "me too."


	3. Chapter Three

The circus by day was bustling and busy, almost a living thing unto itself. Haly's Circus was slated to stay three days in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, then it was off to Louisville, Kentucky. Bethlehem had already seen one show and there were two more to go. Dick had decided to stay for both of them.

He threw himself into the work. He helped ticket sales, took over one of the fairway stages, immersed himself in his heritage and tried to forget the immediate past. Good to his word, though, Elinore got a bath first thing that morning.

"Elinore, no!" Dick had cried out when Elinore dunked her trunk into a large barrel of water and proceeded to shower him. He had given up on keeping his jeans salvageable after that. It was now all out war. After fifteen minutes of mud slinging and drenching each other, elephant and man found themselves being berated by Pop Haly and the elephant keeper, Carl Morley.

"Then we'll have to shovel the mud back in so there won't be a huge dip in the field!" Pop had finished the lecture. "Now, hose Elinore off, take a shower yourself, without the elephant's help, and I'll put you to work. Maybe it will keep you two out of trouble."

Properly chastised, Dick had hosed the mud off the old elephant, led her back to her pen, gave her a grin to match the twinkle in her black eyes and headed back to his temporary new home. Now shouting about the four-headed snake encased in the pickle jar and the seven-legged piglet, Dick was feeling more like his old self for the first time in months.

"It's unbelievable!" he cried. "Ladies, you'll freak. Gentleman, you'll freak. The kids will be fascinated by the fish with NO GILLS!" He laid it on thick. While he hadn't seen the attractions he was hawking, he was having fun. "How does it breathe, you ask? It DOESN'T!" He grinned when a group of two families burst into laughter. 

"Okay, the pitch was too good to pass up. It was worth the price of the tickets alone," one of the fathers said and forked over the money.

"Thank you, sir, and watch your step." Dick gallantly held the curtain open as they stepped inside.

"Really, Master Dick, even gill-less fish need oxygen." Dick froze at the voice.

He turned and tried to give an easy smile. "Hey, Alfred, buy a ticket? It's amazing!"

Alfred merely harrumphed and folded his arms. "Not even a note, Master Dick?"

Dick didn't look away but he felt a twinge of guilt. "I just had to leave, Alfred. I was starting to feel smothered."

Alfred's look softened considerably. "I know. I tried to tell them, but they insisted it was what you needed." Alfred paused to survey his surroundings with an air of someone used to theatrics. "I see you came back home."

Dick gave a slow smile. "Yeah."

"I know the feeling, young sir. I often go to the theater just to reground myself and remember that I'm not just Bruce's butler." Alfred shared a laughing look with Dick. "Well, sir, I believe I shall buy a ticket. I'm looking forward to the show, I must say. I'd like to know what trapeze act passed your rigorous inspection."

"They're good," Dick assured the elder British gentleman, handing him a ticket. "Real good. Even Dad would have been impressed."

"High praise indeed," Alfred replied and stepped through the curtain.

* * *

If Alfred found me, Bruce had too. I kept a watchful eye out the rest of the day, but I didn't see hide nor hair of my former guardian and mentor. Alfred seated himself next to me at the show but didn't mention Bruce once. He didn't mention Barbara, the Titans or anyone for that matter. He only commented on the various acts.

"While they are no compare to your skill, they are good," Alfred said when the trapeze artists finished their performance.

"Yeah," I said half-heartedly, feeling the pressure bearing down on me again. "You here to bring me back?"

Alfred gave me a long look before shaking his head. "No, merely informing you that you can do whatever you need to do. I stopped them all from haring off after you. I do have one request though, sir."

"And that would be?" I asked tightly, suddenly feeling ready to snap.

"Let us know where you are going next? Master Bruce is tense with worry. While I realize you need your own time, he does not, in truth. He was most startled when I informed him on no terms was he to bother you until you were ready to be bothered." 

I looked at him, nonplussed. "And he listened?"

Alfred allowed himself a pleased smile. "I gave him no choice. I told him that if he tracked you down, only he was responsible for what happened."

I gave a slow smile but it faded. "Um, Alfred, I'm only here for a few more days. Get my bearings, talk to some people. Pop mentioned that my grandmother might still be alive."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Your grandmother?" He sounded surprised. Obviously neither he nor Bruce had known. Something like this wouldn't have been kept to Bruce himself, if he'd known. To do so would risk the wrath of Alfred Pennyworth, let alone myself.

"Seems she left my grandfather when my dad was still a kid. I'm going down to Florida to the old circus retiring grounds and see if I can't find some people who might remember or still have contact with her, if she's still alive." I couldn't meet Alfred's astonished gaze.

"Master Dick," he started to protest but he subsided. "Very well. You will call, of course, if you need assistance?"

I finally looked into those concerned blue eyes and gave him a smile of relief. "You know I will."

Alfred stuck his hand out for a shake. "Then I shall offer my heartfelt wishes for a safe journey, Master Dick, and look forward to hearing news from you concerning your grandmother."

I ignored the hand and threw my arms around the slender yet sturdy form of the man who was as much my grandfather as my own flesh and blood one would have been. "Thanks, Alfred. I appreciate it."

Alfred hugged me back. "Anytime, Master Dick, you should know that."

"Yeah," I mumbled into his crisp shirt. "I know."


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarasota, Florida, is indeed the old wintering grounds for circuses like Ringling Bros. and information on Circus Sarasota can be found at http://www.circussarasota.org The hotels, people and places in Sarasota I had to make up. Gibsonton, Florida, is the place where all the sideshow and carnival "freaks" go. Sorry, Sarasotans and Gibtowners, no insult or offense is intended. And yes, ‘freaks’ is still an accepted term and they wear it with pride, I understand.

Sarasota, Florida, had been the wintering grounds of circuses like The Ringling Brothers. I remembered the old winter grounds well, for Haly's Circus used to winter there when they weren't traveling the southern portion of the United States or Europe. Its sandy white beaches and tranquil community wasn't ostentatious despite its colorful winter visitors. Retired circus performers set up their homes there and it hadn't been often that my parents could walk down any street in town without knowing someone.

I found a beachside hotel with a view of the ocean, private beach for relaxation and bungalows instead of hotel apartments. The owner knew several of the older circus folk in town and had been recommended to me by Pop.

Tom Smart was a jovial man who dressed like a beachcomber. His tie-dyed pants were cut off at the knee with scissors and he wore scrubby sandals. When he wore a shirt, it was usually a tank top. His white whiskers were cut in the mutton chop style more suited to the 19th Century and he had bright green eyes that reminded me of holly leaves.

"You need something, my boy, you just let me know. A friend of Pop's is a friend of mine!" Tom handed me the keys after opening the door with a showy gesture. 

I grinned, unable to help myself. "Do you remember the Flying Graysons?"

"You little Dicky?" sputtered Tom in laughing astonishment. "Well, I'll be! You sure look like your Ma, I'll tell you that!"

I laughed. "Thanks."

"Fine flyers they were, my boy, fine flyers indeed. We were all sad when they were killed. I hear some rich swab raised you up north? He did good by you then?" Tom peered at me, as if a close inspection could turn up any flaws or fetishes.

"Very good, Mr. Smart. Mr. Wayne is the best second father anyone could ask for," I assured him.

"You'll call me Tom and there'll be no argument, Dicky." Tom wagged a finger at me like an overbearing uncle.

"Please, Dick," I corrected.

"Dick it is then. You'll join me for dinner, Dick? Havin' spaghetti down at Buck's Spaghetti Warehouse. Nothing fancy but I can introduce you to folks that might be interested in seeing you." Tom looked hopeful and I just couldn't turn him down. He was so friendly and open, reminding me so much of the people I grew up around. I let myself sink into his warmth.

"I'd be delighted, if you let me pay?" I finagled, unwilling to give in without a bit of a fight. He'd have been disappointed anyway.

"You buy the drinks?" he hedged.

"You buy drinks, I'll buy the food, final offer," I said, keeping a straight face.

Tom gave a bark of laughter. "You drive a hard bargain, Dick Grayson, but you've got yourself a deal. I drink more than I eat anyway," he chortled and then left with a wave.

I closed the bungalow door behind me, still smiling to myself and looking around. I poked about, finding nooks and crannies to hide various things that non-superheroes didn't need to know about. It was habit, I suppose, to bring my Nightwing stuff. It was comforting in a way but I had doubts that they would be used. It never hurt to be prepared just in case. I'd been in the business long enough to know that the costume came in handy at the oddest and unplanned times.

The bungalow was clean and nicely furnished. It was nothing fancy, no Ritz Hotel for sure, but still very nice. Wicker furniture and a comfortable bed was offset nicely by whitewashed walls that seemed well-constructed. I had no doubts that these bungalows had weathered many a rough storm with little damage.

With the nice cream throw blanket for a bedspread and aquatic pieces like small nets, wooden fish and starfish, the atmosphere was relaxing and peaceful, just what I needed. There had been a lot of turbulence on the plane flight down and I was still easily tired. I decided to nap before dinner.

* * *

Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I rolled off the bed to crouch on the floor. From there I stood up and crouched rapidly several more times, stretching my leg muscles. It was hard but it didn't hurt like it did after I first left the camps. Physically I was on the mend, but the rest of me was still more than just a little shaky.

I splashed water on my face, avoiding gazing into the haunted blue eyes in the mirror. I brushed my hair, popped a breath mint in my mouth and opened the door to leave. Something made me pause and look back into the room. There was nothing there that wasn't there when I laid down two hours before, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving something …

Tom’s directions to the restaurant were flawless and I walked in to the heavy yet wonderful smell of garlic and oregano. I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting and inhaled deeply.

"Dick! Excellent!" Tom greeted me effusively, patting my back much like Roy did when he was happy to see me and wasn't in the mood to tease. My throat closed as I thought of Roy and what Wally had told me about what he'd done to find me. I owed Roy, and Bruce and the others so much, but an apology topped the bill. "You ready for some eats?"

Jerking my mind back to the man beaming at me I nodded. My stomach growled to lend emphasis to my agreement. "Joey! This is Dick Grayson, you remember, Dicky? Johnny Grayson's little boy?"

A huge man, no doubt a former strongman by his sheer size, poked his head out of a backroom of the tiny restaurant. Why the place was called Buck's Spaghetti Warehouse, I had no idea. Joey seemed to own the place, not Buck, and the building looked more like an old fishing shack not a warehouse.

"Richard Grayson!" Joey came charging out of the back room and picked me up in a huge hug. "You probably do not recall me but I knowed your father when he was runt himself." I must have had a strained looked on my face for he looked slightly abashed a moment. "I knowed you too when you was but babe in your momma's arms. I leave Pop's outfit before you leave diapers."

"I'm sorry I don't remember you," I said solemnly, sticking out my hand for a shake. Joey grasped it firmly and shook it vigorously. 

"S'okay," he told me around a bulky mustache. "It be hard to 'member folks as they comes and goes. Joseph Wazaski. I knowed your grandfather long ago. You calls me Joey, okay?"

I laughed. His accent was a chaotic blend of Slavic and Southern American. "Call me Dick, please, and I hear your spaghetti is the best."

Joey scowled playfully at Tom. "He lies to you, but it not bad. Tom is only one who eats it. I recommend the kielbasa and potatoes." I nodded and he looked pleased. "Spaghetti and kielbasa and potatoes comin' up!" 

Tom led me to a table and we sat down. There were a few other diners scattered about the room but no one I knew, or thought I knew.

"You aren't down here for a social visit, Dick, despite you owning Pop's show." I was startled by the sudden seriousness from Tom. 

"Well I - " I began but he didn't give me a chance.

"Pop called me and told me that you've had troubles in Eastern Europe. If you're like any Grayson, that trouble runs deep and is staying there. Am I right?" Tom fiddled with a fork while I remained silent. "Don't know what happened, Dick, Pop said it was your business to tell me, but I can imagine, knowing your family's history and what's going on over there. Things aren't a secret to those of us with Rom background who have ties to family in Europe."

"I'm here about that," I told him. "Pop mentioned my grandmother. I always thought she'd died when my father was a baby or something. I never knew the history or anything. I was wondering if she was still alive maybe or if she had other children or something?"

Tom looked at me for a very long moment. "Joey would know. I only met your grandmother once and she left a couple weeks after that." He sighed. "There was bad blood with your father and grandfather about her."

I leaned back. "I don't understand. Didn't my grandfather send her away?"

Tom sighed. "I see Pop tried to be diplomatic. Can't say I blame him none, Dick, but he was always more on your grandfather's side than your grandmother's. And your dad, well, he took his lack of maternal raising hard."

"Tell me what you know," I pleaded.

"I only know what other people have told me, Dick. I can tell you this much, your grandfather took Marona's leaving hard. I honestly think every time he entered his trailer, he fully expected her to be sitting there, ready to berate him about something. She never came back though."

"You know where she went?" I asked.

"I heard she lived here for a bit, but that was before I retired. She then moved back to France where she'd been raised. Beyond that, I have no idea, Dick. Joey might though. I told him you were here to ask family questions. He said he'd eat with us."

I nodded and considered what Tom had told me. I had never known my grandfather, as he'd died before I was born, and Dad had rarely mentioned him. I figured they'd either been estranged or they'd been close and he didn't like the memories speaking of his father brought back. The only things I knew were what I overheard sneaking around sometimes. 

Joey came bustling out, a tray laden with food and he set them down with a flourish. "He looked hungry to me, Tom, so I make him extra." Joey set platters all over the table of bread, butter, various vegetables plus our main entrees. A waitress had brought our drinks earlier while Tom was talking.

We started eating and after the round of compliments on Joey's cooking skills, the huge man began to chatter at me. "Tom tells me you wanting to know about your family. I knowed them from way back. Was strongman for Pop's circus when just a young man. They good to me. Harry taught me English and taught me to read. Good man your grandfather. You like the kielbasa?" He pointed a fork at my plate.

"It's very good," I assured him. "My grandfather is who I'm here about. Actually my grandmother…" I let my sentence trail off when he frowned at me.

"Marona selfish woman but then Harry Grayson, he not shiny jewel himself. You not know much about them then?" I shook my head and Joey sighed. "Not surprised," he said and took several more bites. I let him think, knowing he was trying to organize his thoughts. "It long story."

I motioned to the food-heavy table. "We have time. I want to know, Joey."

He nodded. "Okay," he sighed. "I begin with Haly's Circus going to Europe first time after war..."


	5. Chapter Five

“Haly's Circus traveled Europe after the Second World War. A rich friend of Pop's papa paid for the entire thing. The point was free entertainment for the war-torn masses, a small escape from their lives. It took many weeks but all the appropriate passports and passes were acquired for almost all the people and animals. The people who did not go were few and were mostly hands to help put up tents. Circus traveled over most of England, France and Spain, some of Italy and a corner or two of Germany. Your grandfather sought out Rom everywhere he went, looking for family for himself and others in America. He told me he had suitcases full of pictures, drawings and notebooks with names and locations for hundreds of people. Some he found, many he did not. The Nazis, they were thorough, you know. However, he was always joyful when he found someone who had family in America."

"That was how he met your grandmother. She was young woman, very young, had managed to escape Nazis in France by posing as daughter of wine makers. They treated her as daughter and encouraged her to say she was theirs to keep her safe. Originally they from South France but was by Paris at time of Nazi invasion for some reason. Never knew why, just was."

Joey shrugged, taking a sip of water before continuing.

"Fall in love with Marona, Harry did. Even after she left him he talked of her all the time. Angered your father it did but never mind that for now. Harry courted and charmed her in his manner, talking her into marrying him. She left with him. I think she more enamored of being with dashing man in circus than really in love with Harry. Maybe she loved him, I don't know. She didn't love him when she left. She was very angry and disappointed. Anyway, Harry brought her back to America after tour was over, bought nice house here in Sarasota and then they toured. He tried to teach her to fly but she didn't like the height. Always afraid of falling and net not catching her. Harry was jealous of her too. Marona was very beautiful. Much of her in your father Johnny. Some Harry but Marona's blue eyes were Johnny's too. You have them, Dick, spitting image, as they say."

I smiled a little wistfully. The black hair was both Mom and Dad. Many times I'd heard I looked like Mom but I couldn't remember their eyes much. Obviously the blue was distinctive enough for Joey to know where I got my intense blue eyes.

"Yes, just like Marona," Joey was saying. "Marona she gets with child and everyone pleased. She writes to family in France, telling them of happy event but then miscarries. It was very sad. Should have made them closer, I would think, but instead they grew apart. Harry always sweet-talked her, but flirted with other girls too. Never cheated on Marona but I don't think she knowed that. Always accused him of having girl in every town she did, never listened when he said no."

"After Johnny born things started getting really strained. They kept up appearances but the older Johnny got and the more obvious it became that he was like your father, the more … distant Marona got. I knowed them well, knowed that they would not last. I tried to make Harry see that he had to change or he would lose her, but he followed old Rom belief that the woman would stay with her man no matter what. But Marona she half-raised by non-Gypsies, she had no such problem. When your papa only six years old, Harry and Marona got into loud shouting fight before a show. She'd had a vision that Johnny was going to fall and said he couldn't fly that show. Harry said she was being foolish and didn't know what she was talking about. If she didn't like living in the circus, why didn't she leave?"

Joey fell silent a moment and stared morosely at a glass of wine the waitress had brought him only moments before.

"When show over, Harry, he go back to trailer and find Marona packing her suitcase. He took a picture of him, her and Johnny from her and told her if she really leaving she didn't need anything of them. She started to cry more, tried to hug Johnny, but Johnny pulled away from her. He told her he would hate her if she left. Marona wouldn't budge, Harry wouldn't budge, so Marona left us. She had friends here in Sarasota and came back to the house Harry bought her. When winter come, we came back but she'd gotten warning and cleared out before Harry and Johnny get here. She sent a few letters to Johnny but Harry wouldn't let Johnny read them. Don't think Johnny would have read them anyway. He was bad hurt that his momma left and never forgave her."

"That's why he always called her 'my father's wife'," I murmured.

"Yes," Joey nodded, sniffling. "Harry let Johnny grow up thinking Marona left them because they wouldn't leave the circus. Told others that too but it not true. She left because they couldn't work it out and Harry told her to go. Maybe he didn't mean it in the long run, but he meant it when he said it. They just wrong people for each other."

"And my father paid for their bad judgment."

Joey nodded again. "I was worried when your father married that non-Gypsy woman, your mother. I was afraid of the same thing happening to him, but she climbed up that trapeze and soared out over that net over and over, falling and getting up. Your father, he say she was a trooper. He was so proud that she tried so hard all the time. They spent all the time training her to be with him when he flew. She knew that it was part of him, something I think Marona never realized about Harry."

"Well, Harry and Marona's history didn't seem to scar Dad into not looking at a non-circus performer," I said with a small smile.

Joey beamed. "Your father adored your mother, right, Tom?"

Tom had been silent through the story but he laughed. "That would be the understatement of the summer of 1969, Joey. If someone had told Johnny that Mary wasn't the prettiest girl in creation, he'd have punched that guy flat. Mary would watch Johnny with rapt adoration before she joined him on the trapeze. He could do no wrong in her eyes sometimes. They truly loved one another."

Tears stabbed my eyes. "I miss them."

"We all do, Dick," Joey said, patting my arm. "Have some pie. I not make it. Lady up in Gibtown, Global Gertie, she make me pies all the time."

I recognized the name. "Global Gertie. She knew my grandparents, didn't she?"

Joey nodded. "She liked Marona, sympathized with her. Gertie and Harry avoided the subject of Marona to stay friends."

"Joey, do you or Gertie know if Marona is still alive?" I leaned forward, eager. "I want to meet her. I want to know more about her. I want to heal the wounds."

Joey shook his head. "She never talked to me after she left. I sent her photos of Johnny sometimes. Harry would mention it sometimes. 'I wish Marona could see Johnny now' so I take pictures without Johnny realizing why and send them to her. Gertie might know though," he offered at my downcast expression.

"Thank you both. Your help is…" I couldn't finish.

"Harry was family, maybe not by blood, but he was like my brother," Joey told me gruffly. "That make you family. You need me, you just pick up the phone."

Tom was nodding in agreement. "We'll see old Gertie tomorrow morning. She's been ailing, getting on in years you know. Not everyone is healthy as an ox like ol' Joey here." Joey grinned and for the first time I realized he was probably pushing his late seventies. He certainly didn't look it.

I held out my hand. "Thank you."

Joey hugged me instead. "You are welcome."


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kinker is a circus performer, originally meaning an acrobat or aerialist. It later came to be a general term. Here I mean an aerialist. A shanty is someone who rigged and dealt with the lights. Another term for a shanty is a chandelier. A layout man is exactly that, a layout man, deciding how the tents will be set up at each new location. A joey is, of course, not just a baby kangaroo or some dude named Joseph, but a clown, named for the great clown actor of the 1700s, Joseph Grimaldi.
> 
> Thanks to Sideshow for the information and his gracious help in researching. Unfortunately, his website is no longer around, as are some of the resources I used initially writing from this point.

Gibsonton, Florida, was about 40 miles north of Sarasota and had been called "Gibtown" by the retired carnival and sideshow "freaks" for years. As we traveled up 75 highway Tom regaled me with local stories and history. He told me about N. J. Oliveri, who started an artist colony in town. He told me about helping set up the Ringling Museum and doing lectures and classes at the Circus School set up by Circus Sarasota, a stationary circus to help boost the tourist industry and give something back to the community that had wintered circus folk for so long. 

Tom talked about his days in the shows, first as shanty, then as a kinker a couple of seasons, and then as a layout man. He'd also been a joey, a trainer and just about everything in between. It was obvious he'd immersed himself in the circus and had loved every moment of it.

"Tell me about Gertie," I prompted and he started off on another tangent. 

Getrude Oliver had a familial background as entrenched in circus history as my own. Her ancestors traveled around Europe during the Renaissance as troubadours and minstrels, later 'elevating' themselves to sideshow performers and the like. Gertrude herself wasn't a 'freak' in the strictest sense. She had no deformity that made her unusual but she had been a large buxom woman who was very fond of food. Nothing unusual in that, but she had no other useful talent and did not look forward to a life as a towner, or someone not connected with the circus.

During the war, she had an epiphany; she'd tattoo herself with the global map and bill herself as Global Gertie. It worked. Tattooed ladies were always a popular attraction and the more odd the tattoo the better. While her extremely intricate tattoo was out-of-date, she could still brag that navy sailors and army soldiers all over the world had once traced their paths over her body.

Tom pulled up to a small, one-story 1950s style bungalow house with a neat lawn and a couple of garden gnomes. There was nothing that would outwardly tell anyone that a former sideshow attraction lived there. A young Cuban girl answered the door when Tom knocked and smiled broadly, instantly recognizing him.

"Senor Thomas, welcome. She is feeling better today." The girl held open the door and we stepped through.

"Pilar, this is Dick Grayson, another old circus crony of ours…well, old in time with the circus not his age." Tom grinned teasingly at me. 

Pilar gave me a shy smile and motioned to a small parlor room to the right. "I'll bring you some lemonade," she said and disappeared toward the back where the kitchen no doubt was.

"Tom, is that you?" came a strong alto voice from the parlor.

"Yes, it's me, you old hag. Quit your bitchin'." Tom winked at me and motioned me to follow him. "I brought someone to see you. You're gonna be real surprised."

"Oh?" I stepped into a room full of mementoes that would make a circus collector swoon. Poster bills, trinkets, photos, old costumes and props that were museum-quality mounted were scattered everywhere. A few posters showed Gertie at various ages, modeling her global tattoos in typical sideshow tawdriness. 

The woman herself was remarkable as well. Though lines cracked her face her brown eyes were youthful and sparkling. Few layers of skin hung off her thin frame, the only evidence of former heftiness ebbing away with her youth. She wore a terry cloth bathrobe of Kelly green and matching slippers. Her fingers were adorned with gaudy rings and long equally gaudy earrings were clipped to her earlobes.

Tom bowed me forward with a showy flourish. "Global Gertie, meet the only living member of the Famous Flying Graysons!" he announced like a ringmaster.

Gertie's brown eyes widened with surprise and she held out her hands. "Oh, my dear Dicky, how you've grown!" She pulled me down into a hug. "I saw you last when you was a little tyke, learning how to do a somersault on the ground."

I smiled sadly. "That was long ago then, huh?"

She nodded solemnly. "Sometime, I would say. You look fine, my boy, just like your mother, though I see a hint of your dad in you." I grinned and shook my head in rueful consternation. "Hear that a lot, don't you?" she chortled.

"Yes, ma'am."

"None of that now. I'm Gertie, you’re Dick and that's Tom. I knew your dad when he was knee high to a grasshopper and not much smarter." I laughed at her analogy. 

We chatted about Pop's circus and the changes he and I had made or were going to make. Gertie told me some amusing stories about my dad and grandfather before I brought up the reason for the visit.

"Gertie, Tom and Joey said that you might be able to tell me about my grandmother, Marona?" Gertie frowned at me a moment and I hastened to add, "I went through some rough times recently and I just feel a need to find out more about my past."

"What happened?" demanded Gertie, now surveying me with a hawk-like gaze.

"It's difficult, it has to do with my Rom background…." I began but she waved it away.

"First of all, honey, you aren't Rom. Rom is a specific branch of Gypsy, albeit one of the largest and most well known. Marona, she was Gitane Gypsy, out of France or Spain. I think that her parents traveled through both countries before she got adopted by those winemakers. Old Harry, now he was Ludar Gypsy. Those were the performer types, traveling around, entertaining folks. If you're going to do your genealogy, you need to start with the right jargon." She paused, picking at a loose thread on her robe. "Second, nothing you could tell us about something that happened to you, Dick, would surprise us. I traveled with the circus after the war…I saw some horrible things. You tell old Gertie and Tom what's up?"

So I summarized the events of the past months, a little about the camps and my recovery, but I didn't go into too much detail. Something about them both told me they could easily fill in the blanks.

"Things folks do to one another," Gertie said with a growl and a shake of her head. Her white hair fluffed around her shoulders as she did so. "So you're wanting to find Marona?"

"Is she still alive?" I asked.

Gertie shrugged. "She was about three years ago. That's when I got my last Christmas card from her. Her kids weren't too fond of her dealing with us Americans. Either they got her to stop sending letters or she died. Don't know which."

"I have cousins?" I asked stupidly. I'd never had cousins. Both Mom and Dad had been only children. It never occurred to me to wonder at the possibility.

Gertie chuckled. "You have a whole passel of them, my boy. Marona had no problems conceiving with Thebault Salier. Had herself two boys and three girls, I understand. Lots of grandkids, as you can imagine. Just a minute and I'll see if I can't locate that last Christmas card." Gertie hefted herself up and left the room.

I stood up and wandered around, looking at her keepsakes with Tom making a comment about an item and its origins every once in a while.

"Here it is!" Gertie called as she reentered the room, now dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt that advertised a Russian museum exhibition from a few years ago. She handed me a slightly worn envelope. "You just take that with you, Dick. If she's gone, at least you'll still have something that has her handwriting and stuff on it. You want some pictures?" She ambled over to a bookshelf laden with scrapbooks and photo albums. She flipped through a couple, mumbling as she did so. "Ah-ha! Here's one of old Harry. He was a sly dog, charming as they come, always ready with a flippant remark or a flirty word." She grinned at me after handing me the faded black and white photo. "Here's one of Marona. She was lovely, wasn't she? You couldn't be jealous of her though, she was so unconscious of her looks."

Gertie was right, Harry had been quite handsome and Marona was more than lovely; she was downright beautiful. The picture was in the old-style color, giving her rosy pink cheeks, and a pearly white smile. Blue eyes that looked just like mine twinkled at me from the picture.

"She's beautiful," I breathed in awe.

"Yes," Gertie nodded. "She was quite the looker. She always had a passel of admirers but never gave them a look. Probably didn't realize they were there. She had eyes in the beginning only for Harry." She shrugged and then made her way back to her chair. "Marona quickly realized that she wasn't cut out for traveling, but she tried, Lord knows, she tried to stick with it. Harry, though, he was oblivious to it all. Hurt him terrible when she took his advice and left. He just never understood." She sighed heavily.

"I stayed in contact with her, a bit like Tom did, but she actually wrote me back. We'd been pals, you see, and I helped her to adjust as much as she could to travelin'. When she moved back to France, we kept writing. Even went to her wedding to Salier. He was some fancy winemaker like those folks what raised her. As time passed, letters between us were fewer and fewer until finally it was just Christmas cards. She told me once that her family didn't like the fact that she'd been married to some circus performer. Thought it should be some unsavory part of her past, best left unacknowledged and unknown." Gertie grinned wickedly at me. "Really throw them for a loop if you showed up and put a kink in the works."

I smiled slightly. "I don't want to disturb her life, Gertie, I just want to know more about where I come from."

Gertie waved a dismissive hand. "Don't you worry none about that. If Marona is still alive, she wouldn't have changed that much. It broke her heart to leave Johnny behind, but she knew it had been the right thing to do. Harry wasn't a bad father and Johnny had family in the folks around him to help keep him on the straight and narrow. If Johnny had asked for her once, she'd have come running immediately. He never did though, he never did."

"Do you think my father ever regretted not seeing her ever again?" I asked thoughtfully. "I don't remember much about him talking about her and he never called her his mother."

Gertie gave me a wistful smile. "He loved her, I know, but she hurt him bad, arguing with his dad like that and then leaving. As far as Johnny was concerned Harold Grayson walked on water and flew with the angels. He missed her, but he could never forgive her for breaking his dad's heart like that. Johnny would never listen to both sides of the story and Harry could spin a heartbreaking story about Marona, let me tell you." She shook her head in exasperation.

I stood up, eager to be moving again. I had a lead, I had some clues, and I was getting close to a solid starting point to finding out more about my history. I ignored the fact that it was an excuse to run away from my recent troubles.

"Thank you, Gertie," I said, leaning down to hug her. "Thank you so much."

"Anytime, my boy, I'm glad you came to see me. If you find Marona alive, you tell her to send me a letter, will you?"

"I will, Gertie, I promise," I said. I paused a moment and then smiled ruefully. "Gertie, can I see - "

Gertie laughed uproariously with Tom joining in as she lifted her shirt a bit.

France was a long way away from America, but on Gertie they weren't so far apart at all.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gitans of Southern France are a struggling group of Roma, straddling the modern and traditional world. While France is more accepting of its mixed cultures, there is still a push on the Gypsies of France to settle in government housing and to give up their nomadic lives. It's been partially successful. I didn't know what to do with Dick's European ancestors so I tweaked. Forgive me. The Rom are still so closed that it is very difficult to get a good sense of their culture, language and beliefs unless one knows one of them personally. Alas, while my connections in Native Americana are fairly decent, those inside other cultures like the Gypsies are non-existent. Forgive my tweaking, paraphrasing and whatnot. I did the very best I could, and again no offense or insult is intended. The more I discover of these people, the more I respect and admire them.

I called Wayne Manor from the airport in Atlanta, hoping to get Alfred and not an answering machine. Bruce answered the phone. 

"Hi, Bruce," I murmured, taken aback. It was nine o'clock in the evening. No doubt he was getting ready for an evening of terrorizing Gotham's criminal elements.

"Dick," came the solemn response. "You're well?" There was just a hint of worry in the voice and for some reason I felt defensive about it.

"Not bad. In Florida, heading for France. Where's Alfie?" I snapped peevishly. Did he think I needed him breathing over my shoulder?

"Alfred's in the shower. I'm manning the phones per his orders." The unspoken 'just in case you call' was hanging there but I decided to let it go.

"Oh," I said, acquiescing the point.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Bruce's voice was coldly polite but I knew I had his undivided attention. He'd been more than just a worried parent when I'd been returned to Blüdhaven. He'd guarded me, making sure I wasn't disturbed or unnecessarily bothered. This would not be a typical distracted chat on the phone with him, with his mind elsewhere on some case or something.

I was disconcerted by this revelation. "Somewhat," I hedged. "A lead on where my father's mother could be, if she's still alive. Turns out Dad had some half-siblings that he either didn't know about or never mentioned."

"Your grandmother?" He sounded puzzled. Had Alfred not told him anything?

"Yeah, I found out my grandmother hadn't died, but left my dad and grandfather and moved back to France. I've been down here finding out the story." We lapsed into another silence.

"If you need anything, you call immediately. The credit limit on your cards have been extended and the balances paid off so that you have room to spend." Bruce couldn't be there for me himself, so he used his money to smooth my way. Normally it would irritate me, but suddenly I realized he was trying to help in his own awkward way. He just didn't know what to do or how to do it.

"Thanks." More silence loomed to eat up the minutes of my cell phone and I fidgeted. "Anyway, I haven't eaten dinner and the flight leaves in a couple hours. Have to check in and stuff."

"Eat and have a safe flight." There was actually a small catch in his voice. I wish I'd imagined it because I felt guilty about it. "Can you give us the flight number and arrival time?" I obliged him, feeling compelled to do so. 

"Bruce, I'm sorry I left so suddenly," I spit out before I slammed the phone down, breaking our connection. Surely he'd understand…please let him understand.

* * *

The flight was boring, boring, boring. The film was boring. The clouds grew monotonous and I'd forgotten how long the flight from America to Europe was. I'd grown used to making it in special superhero transports, teleporters or with speedsters. I'd gotten first class seats but that didn't mean I wasn't surrounded by restless children and people determined to talk my ear off. 

The plane had a stop over in Heathrow, giving me a quick glance of London from the airport. I then boarded a plane to the Lyon-Satolas International Airport in South of France. There in the Beaujolais region was family I never knew I had. I had no idea what my reception would be and had to admit to being slightly nervous about it. From what Global Gertie had told me, I might not be well received. 

I'd done some Internet research in flight to curb the boredom of the trip. Loath to call Barbara Gordon for help lest she report to Bruce or anyone else, I did my own hunting on Thebault and Marona Salier. Married on January 15, 1957 in Lyon, France, they operated an award-winning winery called Caves Salier. From the reading I found on the vineyard and its wines, it was almost certain that Bruce had some of their wines buried away in the wine cellar at Wayne Manor.

From more not-so-public public records, they had five children. Near as I could tell, unable to find birth records for Marona and the way Gertie and Joey talked, she'd been considerably younger than my grandfather. One of the questions I longed to get an answer was how much younger? With such dates as these and knowing my dad was born in late 1960s, she had probably been under twenty years when she'd married Harry Grayson, who had been over thirty at the time.

I took a taxi to a nearby hotel and settled in. It had been a long flight and all I wanted was sleep. I deliberately made myself think about anything but the nervousness I felt in meeting actual flesh and blood family. I wanted to think about anything but the possibility of the acceptance or rejection that I might encounter.

My dreams were plagued with nightmares. I was back in Yevestya, in Court of Miracles #4, and Colonel Borevsky was making me…making me…

My eyes snapped open but I didn't move. Tears stabbed at my eyes and I closed them again. One of these days I was going to have to fully face what had been done to me, what I allowed to happen to help others. I just didn't think I could…it hurt too much…it was too horrible.

It was morning so I might as well get up. 

I washed away in a tepid shower the last remnants of the nightmare and didn't look too closely at my figure that was still on the thin side. I avoided looking at the scars altogether and finally gave up looking in the mirror to properly shave with a razor, opting for the electric razor provided in the room.

The hotel provided fresh rolls, sweet butter and coffee for breakfast. I ate leisurely, getting a feel for the local flavor. Once finished, I went to the desk receptionist for directions to the Caves Salier. She summoned me a cab. It seems Caves Salier was more than just a long walk from my current location.

The cab drove out of town and to a smaller community that seemed to be nothing but miles and miles of vineyards. I shouldn't have been surprised. The area was known for its generations of winemaking. The confluence of the Rhone and Saone Rivers make it prime grape-growing country.

The car turned up a gravel drive and a huge house loomed before me. It looked to be 18th, maybe 19th century in design and reminded me a lot of Wayne Manor. It also had a homey, comforting look about it, which Wayne Manor rarely had. This was a home, not a showplace or museum. Cars lined the driveway and a cat raced across the road. A dog barked as the cab pulled up to the front of the house.

"Can you stay? I'll pay," I asked the driver in flawless French and he nodded congenially. Obviously he was used to this. He pulled a paper out from under his seat and settled down to read.

I heaved myself from the cab and swallowed. The front steps were old worn stones with scuffmarks from centuries of people using them. I knocked on the door as briskly and loudly as I could and stood waiting for the door to be opened.

A small girl opened the door and stared up at me. She looked kind of like Lian Harper, even without the oriental features, a little girl a bit more grown up than she should be. "Hello," I said, continuing to speak French. I didn't want to be known as some pushy foreigner, insisting they speak my language. I wanted to start out making them feel at ease. "Can I speak to an adult?"

"Maureen!" scolded a brisk feminine voice from the recesses of the hallway. "Come here!" A woman with black hair and blue eyes came rushing to the door. "Pardon, sir, she knows better than to open the door to strangers." She looked me up and down once in cool suspiciousness. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I am looking for Marona Salier?" I smiled, trying to put forth a friendly yet determined mien.

"I am Marona's granddaughter, Sibylline. May I ask who you are?" Sibylline, I remembered from my research, was Marona and Thebault's eldest son's daughter.

This wasn't going to be easy. "My name is Richard Grayson. Marona is my grandmother."

Sibylline's face closed off all expression and she regarded me with cold disdain. "Did your father send you here, Mister Grayson?" she asked in perfect English. "If so, tell him that she wants nothing to do with him."

"My father has been dead for almost fifteen years," I informed her, keeping my tone deliberately pleasant and continuing to speak French. I was feeling a bit perturbed at her attitude, though. "I have come on my own. I knew nothing of her until recently. I've come all the way from Gotham City to see her. Please, may I come in?"

"Who is it, Sibylline?" A tall man with equally dark looks as Sibylline towered behind her. 

"This is John Grayson's son, Thomas," his sister said, pulling her daughter away from the door. She obviously thought her brother would take care of their American pest problem.

"You are not welcome here," Thomas informed me brusquely.

"I am sorry," I informed him. "I am here to see the grandmother I didn't know I had and I will leave only when she tells me too."

"My mother is ill. She will not speak to you. Go away." Thomas shut the door in my face.

I knocked and continued to knock for five minutes more until he jerked the door open angrily. "You are not her. Can she not speak for herself?"

He scowled at me but opened it wide enough for me to enter. "You are Gyspy, I can tell by your looks," he said disdainfully.

"Marona is Gitane," I told him with a shrug. "I get it from both her and my grandfather." That comment elicited nothing but a growl and narrowed brown eyes in my direction.

"She is this way. Touch nothing. You are not a guest." 

"And here I thought I was family." I couldn't resist the jibe and he froze.

"You are a stranger to us and an unpleasant memory to my mother. You will behave yourself while in her presence or I will -"

"You'll do nothing," I informed him, tired of the threats and hostile barbs. "Take me to my grandmother."

We traveled through a short hall and then climbed up some monumental stairs. Thomas led me down another corridor and stopped in front of a closed door. "She has been ill this past year. The doctor says there is nothing to be done, just make her comfortable until she leaves us." The statement wasn't delivered as informational; it was delivered as a warning. I understood it. I wasn't to upset her; I had no intention of doing so anyway.

"Mother?" Thomas poked his head in the room and spoke softly. "There is someone here to see you."

"Who is it?" came a faint, gentle voice.

"He says he is the son of John Grayson and he -"

"Johnny? Is that my Johnny out there?" The voice was stronger suddenly and the old woman inside spoke English as perfectly as her children.

Thomas scowled at me and opened the door wide enough for me to enter. "No, madam," I said, with as much respect as I could. "I am Richard John Grayson, Johnny's son."

It was like a scene from a Dickens novel. A huge four-poster bed with a tiny, wizened old woman with gray curls poking from beneath a mob cap. Ruffles on her nightdress brushed her chin and wide blue eyes so like mine stared at me in utter shock.

"I have another grandson?" she whispered. I looked at Thomas nervously but he merely scowled at me again. I could feel her appraising stare traveling over me. "You look so much like my Johnny," she cried and held out her arms.

If only Bruce could know this feeling. It was like…I cannot compare it. There is no compare. I ran over to the bed and collapsed on it, suddenly sobbing and hugging her as tightly as she hugged me. She murmured to me that she was so glad I'd come, that she was so happy to see me, that I must tell her news.

I pulled from her and wiped at my tears. "I am sorry to take so long, Marona," I started but she shushed me.

"I am your grandmother, you may call me Grandmére," she told me, brushing my hair from my face. "My Johnny married a beautiful woman, I see, from the looks of you. How you look like my first husband too!"

"I have your eyes," I told her with a roguish grin. "Everyone has been telling me so since I started this whole journey."

"Who has told you?" she asked, twin eyes of mine twinkling with laughter.

"Pop Haly, Global Gertie, Joseph Wazaski, Tom Smart," I began to list but she laughed at me. 

"I have not heard from Gertrude in so long? She is well?" My grandmother looked anxious.

"She has a caretaker living with her, a nice girl, but otherwise as spry as ever. She told me that if I found you, I'm to tell you to write her immediately."

"I will write her this very evening," my grandmother promised fervently. She hesitated and then looked meaningfully at Thomas. "Please, Thomas, leave Richard and I alone for a while? There is much that I wish to know and I cannot learn it with you hovering over us."

Thomas grumbled but came over to kiss his mother's forehead in affection. "I will bring up some tea, Maman," he told her and then looked down on me with a bit friendlier expression. "Welcome to our home, Richard Grayson."

"Thank you, Thomas," I said gravely. 

As soon as the door closed, she pounced on me, insisting I sit with her and tell her all about myself. I did, though I knew the news would hurt her. She deserved to know. I told her about Mom and Dad, about their death, about being adopted and raised by the billionaire Bruce Wayne. I told her about the trust fund my parents had left me and how Bruce had invested it wisely. She was thrilled that I'd bought the circus and kept it going. 

"Did Johnny ever forgive me?" she asked wistfully, stroking my head as we leaned against the headboard of her bed.

I couldn't lie. "No, Grandmére, he did not. It's hard to change your heart sometimes."

She sighed. "I know. I wanted to take him with me, but he was so much like Harry that I just couldn't do it. He'd have made a horrible French winemaker." I chuckled. That much was true.

"He was an excellent aerialist, Grandmére, one of the best. They say he wasn't as good as Grandfather, but still one of the best. Everyone says I'm like Grandfather, talent-wise."

She gave a low chuckle. "You seem so like him in other ways. You will have to show me your tricks. I never had good balance. Harry despaired of teaching me anything other than back flips on the ground. And I was scared of being so high, of falling and the net not catching me…"

My mind flashed to the memory of my parents lying prone in the ring, blood splattered around them. I shuddered and she felt it. "I am sorry for my Johnny's death but you seem to have fared well after all."

"Yes, Bruce is like a second father. And he was an orphan too, so it gave us something in common and he helped me get through it," I told her.

"I would like to meet this Bruce Wayne and thank him." Grandmére pushed me away and straightened her blankets as Thomas came in with a tray laden with a teapot, two delicate china cups and several plates of goodies. "Thomas, Richard will be staying with us while he visits. Can you get his things from his hotel and bring them here?"

Thomas and I both started to protest but she was adamant. I gave Thomas the requisite information, as well as francs to pay the cab that was still waiting and the hotel bill. He smiled at me slightly and left.

"Now then," Grandmére said brusquely, pinning me with those eyes sharply. "Why are you really here?"


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for quoting Shmi Skywalker in Star Wars Episode I, but I had, I just had too. It's such a great quote and fits so well here. So quick disclaimer for CYA purposes: The speech by Grandmére Marona Salier has a quote from Star Wars Episode I. No money made, blah blah.
> 
> Oh yeah, this is dedicated to my two grandmothers, Vivien Fassnacht and Wybeta Gilliam. The two best grandmothers a granddaughter could ever have!

I don't know what it was about her, but I told her everything, every last detail. She listened, plying me with an occasional question or observation, drawing out more memories and feelings. She ignored my sudden outbursts of anger and self-deprecation and she scolded me when I blamed myself. She offered comfort and strength, wisdom and encouragement as needed.

This was what a grandmother was for. I know it now.

This woman who'd never seen me before, possibly didn't know of my existence, had found and hit that vulnerable spot that friends had been trying to get to for months following my release from the Yevestyan camp. It took her one question, “why are you really here?”

'Blood will out,' it's said, though usually in a derogatory fashion but it’s true. Roy, Donna and Wally often have accused me of uncannily knowing exactly the right thing to say to help them through a problem or situation. I always thought it was something I learned from Bruce, but I guess not. Blood will out.

Grandmére heard it all, the whole sorry story, beginning to end. She heard all the gory details, every last bit. Things I'd never told anyone: not the therapists, not the doctors, not Bruce, Alfred, Roy, Donna, Wally, Garth, anyone. Not Pop, Gertie, Tom, Joey, or even Elinore, who had to be the safest confidant on the list.

When I'd finally wound down, she handed me a handkerchief and topped off my teacup with some still warm tea. "Drink this," she ordered me softly. "Then you will listen to me, Richard John Grayson."

I obeyed, collapsing into a colonial style bench with no back. 

"First, which you have heard numerous times but I will repeat because it cannot be repeated enough, it is not your fault. In fact, you went above and beyond anything expected, a true hero. I am proud of what you did, though you may feel shame. You gave without any thought of reward and gave hope to those who had none. So many heroes from these places are ignored through the general suffering of those survivors. One does not look beyond the heroism of living. I am proud of you."

I stared at her as her vehemence soaked in.

"Second, I am very pleased you have come looking for me, but I wonder why you do this? Is it because of what happened to you? Or are you curious about your ancestry? Maybe," she looked thoughtful, "you think maybe I have wisdom your friends do not have and I can whisk away your pain?"

I swallowed. "I came because I did not even know I had a grandmother," I said shakily.

She smiled at me sympathetically. "I am not questioning your sincerity, Richard, inasmuch as wondering of your motives. I am not a Tibetan monk, wise beyond my years. I am just an old sick woman so happy to see family she did not know she had, devastated at the recent events of his life as she should be."

She held out her hands and I stood up, setting the cup on the tray as I moved back to her. "I have no other blood family than you, Grandmére," I said brokenly.

"Shush," she scolded me. "Family is not about blood, but about love. Does your Bruce Wayne not love you? Is he this cold man who only raised you out of charity?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Do you not have friends who help you, stand beside you and laugh with you?"

"Yes, but I…"

"They are your family so much more than I, silly boy, but now that you are here, I will not quibble to say I am not your family." She kissed my cheek. "Help me from this bed. I wish to go to the garden. I am feeling well enough to show you my beautiful home."

* * *

It was a very beautiful home, cheery and warm. Thomas met us in one of the hallways and held out his arm for her to take. I had her other arm and the three of us went into the garden, Grandmére chattering about nonsense.

"Thomas, Richard has had a horrible recent experience that has traumatized him greatly. He came looking for family to ground himself, to find a missing part of his soul." Grandmére tapped her son on the forearm in mild rebuke. "I know that Thebault did not like to speak of my past, but he has gone from us. It is my past and Richard is a welcome in my life. Please make him welcome in yours. There is much you and your siblings can learn from him and vice versa."

"Maman, he is…" Thomas' voice trailed off but both Grandmére and I knew what he was going to say.

"I am Gitane and so are you!" she declared tersely. "Something else your father insisted on pretending was not true. I allowed it because it kept the peace and, in truth, I'd had so very little to do with my people in so long that it made little difference. Either way, there will be peace in my home while Richard is here."

"Yes, Maman," Thomas said humbly.

"Yes, Grandmére," I agreed as well for good measure. 

She patted both our arms and began telling me about the flowers in her garden and the grapes and wines of Caves Salier. She openly bragged of Thomas' talent in winemaking, saying he was better than his father. Thomas smiled fondly down at his mother as she sang his praises. I couldn't help but smile when she would occasionally tell Thomas of my father's natural talent for acrobatic tricks.

She directed us to a bench with a nice little clearing in the foliage. She bid Thomas to sit next to her and then turned to me. "Richard, you will show me your acrobatics. I will tell you how like your grandfather you are." Grandmére turned to Thomas and confided. "Harry was the best acrobat in the circuses I saw in America. He awed audiences in Europe as well when I first met him after the war. If Richard is half as good as Harry was, then I will be truly awed."

I flushed and thought up a quick routine. I shrugged out my jacket and did a quick stretch warmup. "Be warned that I am not in peak physical shape, Grandmére, because of - "

"I know," she told me impatiently. "Show me! I want to see!" She scowled at me, as if to say that I couldn't get out of showing off with such a flimsy excuse.

Thomas looked perplexed at the veiled references but obediently watched as I prepared. I surreptitiously glanced at him as I stretched and saw no judgment, only curiosity. It was a simple routine, one that my father made the family use first thing in the morning to “limber up the day”, as he used to say. I remembered hearing someone once say that it was the first routine he’d learned from his father when he was a kid. Surely Grandmére would recognize it?

A series of handsprings started me off and then a few complicated gymnastic twists set me in full motion. I twisted, turned, leaped, somersaulted and bounced. I closed my eyes and just let the routine take control, like a martial arts kata. I’d tried to teach Bruce the routine once but he’d proved surprisingly clumsy with it. He’d finally given up, telling me it had to be something only a flyer could do. With one of those rare chummy grins of his, he told me that only someone who was more bird than bat could do this routine.

I did the routine three times in a row, it felt so good. I finished with a triumphant flourish of my hands to the sound of an audience clapping. I opened my eyes to find not only my half-uncle and grandmother cheering my performance but also little Maureen, her mother and a few other dark-haired people that had to be family as well.

Grandmére clasped her hands in her lap, familiar blue eyes shining with tears. “Just like my Harry,” she laughed joyfully. “Yes, you are just like him, indeed. So graceful and such a show-off,” she teased.”

Thomas was smiling a bit himself. “Very impressive. You have good control.”

Maureen was tugging on her mother’s hand. “I want to learn, I want to learn!” she was begging in rapid French. Her mother was torn between being aghast at the idea and impressed with what she’d seen.

Something clicked in that moment. Looking around at faces so similar to mine, I’d found a small niche in the world that was my own. I understood Grandmére’s words about family, knowing that Bruce, Alfred, Tim, Barbara, the Titans and the rest were definitely my family in every sense of the term, but here, here in this moment, in these faces was another family that I had suddenly, slightly become a part of.

And then something awful happened.

I didn’t notice it at first, too busy laughing and enjoying the moment, but I must have winced or grimaced without realizing it. Thomas stepped forward with a concerned look on his face and I saw his mouth move but I heard no sound.

I was puzzled and then the pain started to burn its way up my chest. I tried to gasp, tears stinging my eyes but I couldn’t say anything, do anything other than fall to the ground. Thomas’ face swam into view and I tried once more to say something…

…and there was agony-filled darkness.


	9. Chapter Nine

It was one in the afternoon when the phone rang at Wayne Manor. Alfred placed the last Waterford crystal wine glass on the table and walked across the room to pick up the phone on the fourth ring. “Wayne Manor,” he answered in his usual butler-esque tone.

“Is Mr. Bruce Wayne at home?” came a breathless voice with a twinge of a French accent over the line.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayne is not at home. He is currently in a business meeting. May I take a message?” Alfred surveyed the table, knowing he was missing something for the dinner party Bruce was giving that evening. His attention was abruptly pulled from the elaborately set table by the French woman on the other line.

“My name is Syballine de Valons, the granddaughter of Marona Salier. We have just taken Richard Grayson to the hospital. Is there any way that we can contact Mr. Wayne to inform him of this?”

“I am Alfred Pennyworth, Mr. Wayne’s butler. Is Master Richard unwell? Has he been injured?” Alfred’s mind began dredging up every horrible scenario it could think of, but the truth startled him more than anything.

“He’d just done an acrobatic routine when he suddenly looked pained and fainted.”

“What is the hospital’s direction?” Alfred scribbled the information on a nearby pad of scratch paper he kept for just such emergencies. “Very good, merci beaucoup, Madaemoiselle de Valons, tell Master Richard that we will be there as immediately as possible.” 

“It’s Madam, Monsieur Pennyworth, but Syballine will do just as well. I shall pass the message along. If you wish to contact my father, Thomas, here is his mobile phone number. He will remain at the hospital, he said.” 

Alfred wrote the number down, thanked Syballine again, and hung up. He leaned against the wall in a moment of shock and then roused himself to run pell-mell to the study. There he hit the emergency button that connected to all of the Bat crew’s pagers (which they presumably would have on their persons at all times). The phone was ringing off the hook in moments.

“Alfred, what is it?” came Timothy Drake’s breathless voice. “I just got back from lunch and was heading for gym.”

Alfred felt chagrinned. He hadn’t been thinking. “My apologies, Master Tim, but Master Dick seems to have some sort of relapse while visiting relatives in France. I panicked and hit the emergency button, not knowing exactly where Master Bruce would be.”

“Is Dick okay?” asked an anxious Tim.

“It’s uncertain at the moment. I believe they said he was en route to the hospital.”

“Well, find Bruce and keep me posted, okay?”

“I shall most certainly do so, Master Tim. Good-bye.”

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!” Bruce’s voice roared from the front door. Alfred jumped a foot in the air and sprinted from the study.

“Master Dick collapsed at his grandmother’s home. They are en route to the hospital at this moment.” Alfred watched, aghast, as Bruce’s face went gray as ash. “I have a mobile number and the direction of the hospital. I shall immediately get the private jet ready for flight.”

“Call the Titans.”

Alfred turned at the dark tones. “Sir?” he asked cautiously.

“I promised to keep them posted. Call the damned Titans Tower.” Bruce stalked upstairs but Alfred distinctly heard him mutter, “We never should have let him leave Blüdhaven.”

* * *

“Titans Tower, you bring the alien invasion, we dispose of it.” Roy Harper had decided that Thursday afternoon had to be the worst time of the week. Not only was there nothing on the television but there was also a lack of activity in the world, unless you counted traffic jams.

“Master Roy, I have called to inform you that Master Dick had a relapse of some sort in France.” Alfred Pennyworth’s voice filtered through the speaker.

Roy straightened up as if someone had jabbed an iron rod into his spine. “Is he alright? Do you guys need anything?”

“Master Bruce and I are heading to France immediately. He instructed me to call you so that the Titans would be updated.”

“Thanks, Alfred, and you tell Dick none of that lollygagging around. Who’s gonna lead us into our next butt-whooping if he’s goofing off in French hospitals with cute French nurses?” Despite the teasing words, Roy’s tone was anything but teasing. 

Alfred recognized Roy’s attempt all the same and smiled to himself. “I shall, of course, relay the message, Master Roy, and we will contact you as soon as we’ve heard anything further.”

“It’ll be appreciated, Alfred, it’ll be appreciated,” the red-haired said as he slung his quiver and bow over his shoulders. The line went dead, indicating that the British butler had disconnected the call. Roy punched the disconnect button on his end as well and sprinted out of the building.

Roy hit the door of his quarters at full tilt, throwing his bow and quiver carelessly into a corner. Lian was still visiting with the Santoses, thankfully, so she wouldn’t be a problem on a long flight. ‘If Bruce Wayne and Alfred think they’re going to see our fearless leader without Titans support, they are sadly mistaken,’ Roy thought to himself as he began throwing clothes into a suitcase.

He grabbed up his walk-around phone and dialed a number. “Oracle, get me information on the first and fastest flight to France. And also, any idea where in France Mr. Bruce Wayne is headed?”

The computerized voice of Oracle, the superhero research assistant/coordinator (among other things), lilted back to him. “I’m not sure, Arsenal, but you can bet I’ll be finding out very quickly. Please hold.”

Roy continued to pack and was in the middle of scribbling a note to the other Titans when Oracle came back on the line. “They have just boarded Wayne’s private jet heading for Lyon-Satolas International Airport in southern France. Near as I have been able to ascertain the hospital is in Lyon, France, the, um, Hospices Civils de Lyon. No, wait, he’s been transferred…no.” 

Roy’s mouth dropped open in shock. “A bit flustered are we, Oracle?” he asked with some amusement.

“I don’t know where the hell Dick’s at now. He was checked in at a clinic and now he’s at the Civils de Lyon. It looks like he might be in transit for another clinic, a private clinic of some sort. I don’t know. I’ve contacted the Flash. He’ll be your transport for the trip but try not to get there before Mr. Wayne or none of us will live to tell the tale.”

“You’re sending Wally to me and telling us not to get there before Bruce Wayne, who’s going by slow-mo airplane?” Roy continued to be amused. “I’ll be sure and tell Wally we need to stop at Disney Paris for a couple of rides then.”

“You know what I meant, Harper.” Oracle immediately ended the connection.

* * *

Dick came to surrounded by whispering voices that vaguely sounded French to his befuddled mind. He had a flashback of waking up similarly only months before, only that time the language had been distinctly German. He tried to listen and understand what was being said but the voices were speaking too rapidly and he was just too exhausted and pained to make much of an effort. Giving up for the time being he allowed himself to just rest, keeping half an ear open just in case. It never did any good to let your guard down all the way; he’d learned that lesson very early in his heroing career.

“Richard?” The soft feminine voice that cooed his name to his right gave him a jolt of awareness. The voice was soothing, comforting and so worried. He longed to reassure her, but he couldn’t open his mouth. He was just so tired. He sank once more into oblivion.

“Maman, you should not be here. You aren’t well yourself,” protested Thomas, shoving a hand through his graying brown-black hair. His equally brown eyes belied his tone. It was a relief to have her out of the house. She had not been this energetic in months.

“Nonsense,” Marona answered briskly. “He is my family as much as you are, Thomas. There is no one to see to his comfort other than strangers. As a grandmother, that is my job.”

Thomas stared several long moments at the still figure in the hospital bed, an oxygen mask over his face to help facilitate his shallow breathing. As much as Thomas wanted to deny it, there were strong resemblances between this Richard Grayson and himself. They both had the dark Gypsy looks and undoubtedly the inner strength and stubbornness. On the way to the hospital, Marona had briefly outlined what Grayson had recently lived through that had inspired the young American on this journey for his cultural heritage. Thomas had to grudgingly admit Grayson had every right to the family he’d long been denied. He too would have done the same.

“Bold American,” Thomas muttered. “Too stubborn for his own good.”

Marona only smiled and nodded. After a minute she added, “Just like his grandfather.” Thomas hurrumphed. “Thebault poisoned your mind against my first husband. He was not as bad as your father made him out to be. I fell in love with Harry because he was so dashing and handsome. He knew how to sweep a woman off her feet and romance her. He was clever, brave, and witty, but he was not the family sort. Not the settle down and build me a house type of man. I thought I could change him, I thought I could shape him into what I wanted. I was wrong. It was me, Thomas, that was in the wrong with my first marriage, not Harry. He gave me everything he could, but it just wasn’t enough. We just weren’t suited to be together, more is the pity. It is just unfortunate that John was caught in the middle of our heartbreak.” Marona sighed heavily and Thomas placed a consoling hand on her shoulder.

“We love you, Maman, me and this Richard Grayson. If it is a family he needs, then it is a family he will get, whether he wants us now or not!” 

Marona laughed, a bright tinkling sound and placed her hand on top of her son’s. “Yes,” she said firmly. “He has us now. We are Gitane Gypsy and French winemakers. There is no getting rid of us.”


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a heck of time coming up with a reason for Dick just passing out cold. After harassing various healthcare and medical professionals on many mailing lists, digging on the internet for months on post traumatic stress syndrome, emotional and psychological symptoms of torture victims, I could find nothing that really fit what I wanted to do to Dick. They were either too serious or something that would have already been dealt with before the story. So alas, I ask forgiveness for the vagueness of Dick’s malady and poetic license for the slight misuse of some medical issues. I know they aren’t completely right but it was honestly the best compromise I could come up with.

Roy Harper, Wally West, Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth arrived at the hospital at exactly the same time. Bruce merely narrowed his eyes in the two younger men’s direction. Alfred gave them both an acknowledging nod. In silence the four men headed to the first nurse’s station they could find to get directions to Dick’s room.

As an orderly took them to the area of private rooms, they passed a large waiting room. There was a loud gasp followed by, “Monsieur Wayne? Monsieur Bruce Wayne?” The group stopped as a whole.

A man as tall as Bruce with dark brown hair and determined brown eyes approached them, his hand outstretched. “I am Thomas Salier, Richard’s half-uncle. My mother is still in the room with Richard. She refuses to leave. He is family now, after all.” Thomas Salier’s voice was deep and rich, a baritone as smooth as bourbon. His English was perfect, despite a small inflection of a French accent. “Please, all of you, come in here. The doctor was just getting ready to give his prognosis of Richard’s condition.”

“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Salier,” Alfred graciously replied, bowing his head slightly. “I am Alfred Pennyworth, Mister Wayne’s butler and valet, as well as Master Dick’s surrogate grandfather, I suppose you could say. I helped raise him after his parents’ tragic deaths.”

“Yeah, thanks,” added Roy, shaking the tall Frenchman’s hand in turn. “I’m Roy Harper, a good friend of Dick’s.”

“I’m Wally West, one of Dick’s best friends,” Wally introduced, his Mid-western manners kicking in a bit belatedly.

Roy headed for a nearby couch, putting distance between himself and Bruce Wayne, whom he sensed was more than a little peeved at he and Wally’s appearance in France. A little girl about his daughter’s age was staring wide-eyed at his hair from across the room. He tousled his red locks a bit and winked at her. “Like it? My daughter would trade her black hair for it any day of the week.” The little girl giggled and her mother beamed at him.

Once everyone was seated the doctor opened his mouth but was interrupted one last time. “You would speak about my grandson without me here, Dr. Léon?”

Dr. Léon turned and smiled warmly at a small, elderly woman who made her way into the room a bit stiffly. Thomas immediately rose and helped the woman to the only empty seat, which was right next to Bruce. Bruce nodded politely to her, itching to find out who all these people were in relation to Dick but more eager to discover what had happened to his adopted son.

“Continue, please, my apologies for the interruption.” The elderly woman folded her hands neatly in her lap and gave her complete attention to the doctor in front of them.

The doctor began, also in English with but a few mistakes in his vocabulary. “From what Marona has told me about what Monsieur Grayson has lived through recently it is something expected to be. His body, it is adjusting to the new growing of muscle and flesh and sinew. There is also still great stress upon his mind and his body that he seems impatient to allow to continue to heal. When he did his exercise, he quickly ran out of energy and breath. Perhaps he was unaware of it, so concentrating was he on his exercise. It is possible he may suffer for many months from now of chronic hyperventilation. He will be short of breath often and stress his body too much without realizing or until he passes out.” The doctor grimaced. “My apologies for my English. I do not get to use it often. Do I make sense?”

“You are doing fine,” assured Wally. “I’d say speak French, but I wouldn’t understand a word of it.”

Dr. Léon smiled, encouraged, and continued. “He is having trouble still getting his breath. I recommend he remain here two or three days for further evaluation and after take care of himself physically better.”

“I’ll strap him to his bed at home,” nodded Bruce grimly.

Marona slapped his arm hard enough it stung. “You will do no such thing!” she snapped in perfect English. “Americans! Why must you do everything the rough way? He is more than welcome to stay in my home until he is well-enough again to move around.” She exchanged a brief glance with Thomas, who imperceptibly nodded. ‘In fact, I invite all you from America to stay with us at the Salier home.” Marona pinned Bruce with a flinty glare. “You are Bruce Wayne, who raised my grandson as if he were your own son?”

Bruce, pinned under that glare like a deer in headlights, replied, “I am.”

Marona beamed a sunshine bright smile at him and engulfed him into a tight hug. “Then I am more than pleased to call you ‘son’ as well, Bruce. Call me Grandmére or Maman, whichever makes you most comfortable.”

* * *

“This house is _gorgeous_ ,” breathed Wally in admiration. Roy had to admit, Wally was right. Though Ollie had once had a nice mansion and all of the old Titans members had visited Wayne Manor at one time or another, Roy had to admit, this house was not only gorgeous, but it was a home.

A home of a family centuries old in the wine industry as well if the wine cellar and vineyards were any indication. The wine they had just had with dinner surpassed being labeled ‘excellent’. Roy had felt drunk just sniffing the rich red liquid.

The Salier family had been beyond gracious. Opening their home to complete strangers with just a very tenacious thread of acquaintance, the Saliers made Dick’s American family feel at ease and comfortable. Everyone had returned to the Salier home with Dick two days after their arrival in France. Dick had remained groggy and bedridden while in the hospital and only released when he was able to walk without the world spinning out of control. Currently, ‘Monsieur Grayson’ was upstairs in a sumptuous guestroom, undoubtedly bored out his mind, if he wasn’t rattling the windows with his snoring, that is.

“Well, Wall, I knew Grayson was quality the first moment I saw him, even for a ragged Gypsy boy.” Roy gave his old friend a smirk and Wally just chuckled. “What is it with the Batcrew and adoptions? Can’t they have children the normal way?” Wally laughed this time. 

“Better not let Bruce hear you say that or it’ll be the last thing you’ll do.” Wally stopped to admire a painting on the wall. “Y’know, I think that’s the one Linda wants for her birthday. The print of course.”

“Of course,” echoed Roy, taking a closer look himself. “But that, I think, is the original.”

Wally gave Roy a mock surprised expression. “You think?”

“Indeed.” An older voice brought their light banter to a halt. “My great grandfather collected many rare art pieces from auctions right before World War II. Undoubtedly many of these pieces belonged to Jewish families before the Final Solution took more than just their possessions.” Thomas Salier pondered the painting as well. “I never liked any of them. They seemed to give off a bad aura, as if they knew that they had lost their previous homes through mischance and violence. They seem to not want to belong here.”

Wally tried to joke over the serious tone of the comments. “My wife would love it in our living room, I’m sure.”

Thomas looked startled. “Would she?” He gave the painting a closer inspection. “She likes this painting in particular? I never thought of it as just art. I only saw the history behind it.” He took a step back and stared at the painting some more. “It is lovely, is it not?”

Roy and Wally were just staring at the man. “Uh, yeah,” Wally finally managed to get out.

Thomas turned his attention back to the two young men. “I hope you are both comfortable?”

“Very,” affirmed Roy, coming back to himself quicker than Wally. “This house is most impressive.”

“And very old and well-cared for. Generations of your family have lived happily here,” added Wally, glancing around him.

Thomas beamed at them. “I must confess when I realized who Richard was and why he was here, I was afraid he would disrupt that harmony. My father never spoke much about my mother’s true heritage. She wasn’t really raised as a Gypsy and therefore we never considered her such. Yet the fact that she had been married to one, had a son, and had even traveled with a circus in America was more than my father’s rather old-fashioned beliefs in class could manage. He refused to discuss with her the idea of even visiting the family she left behind. I was afraid…” Thomas’ face shuttered.

“You were afraid she would want to leave with him?” finished Wally inquiringly. “Maybe go back to the life she might have missed?” 

Thomas nodded soberly. “Silly of me, no? She could have returned anytime she wished, of course. Nothing stopped her from leaving her first family, after all.”

“I think it would have been very difficult to do so a second time, however,” Roy told the older man. “This family was more accepting of her, while Dick’s grandfather might have been difficult. Something had to have happened between them to make her leave. She does not seem the type of woman to give up anything unless she knows the cause is lost.”

Thomas laughed. “Yes, my mother is a strong-willed woman and now she seems determined that Richard will not only be a part of our family but also that he will recover completely from his past.” The Frenchman paused delicately. “I have only been told the briefest of accounts of what happened to Richard, but I understand it was very bad?”

“Very bad,” both young heroes assured the Frenchman. “This painting’s former owners have a lot in common with Dick,” added Wally, gesturing to the painting.

Thomas gave the upstairs bedroom where Dick was now comfortably ensconced a thoughtful look. “I see. Yes, I see after all. Maman is a very wise and compassionate woman.”

Roy smiled at Wally. “It runs in the family.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

“Can I get up now?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“You’re whining.”

“I know.” There was a pause. “Please?”

“The doctor said bedrest.”

“But not for the rest of my life!”

“REST!”

Dick stuck his tongue out at the backside of Bruce Wayne as the older man went over to the window to brush the curtains closed. “I don’t need another nap, Bruce, I’ve had three today!”

“Rest.”

“Broken record.”

“Stubborn Gypsy.”

“About time you took notice of that.”

“You know, he can’t rest if you continue to argue with him.” Roy Harper stood in the doorway of Dick’s spacious pale green bedroom, smirking at the wordplay between the two men.

“Shut up, Harper,” Dick and Bruce said in unison.

“Great minds think alike and so do yours,” quipped Roy, ducking out of the room and skipping down the hall when Bruce made a motion to go after him.

“Well, everyone seems glad I’m doing something besides snoring,” Dick commented, sitting up straighter on the bed, the covers bunching at his waist. “Except for you, of course. Is it your goal to turn me into a lifetime invalid?” Bruce glowered at his adopted son as Dick looked around thoughtfully. “No wheelchair?”

“I could end your misery right here, you know,” Bruce growled playfully.

Dick’s eyes widened in mock astonishment. “What did I do?”

“Enough!” Alfred Pennyworth appeared in the doorway. “Master Bruce, away with you. I told you not to smother him. You are worse than a mother hen. Master Dick,” Alfred turned on Dick, who was making faces at Bruce. “Grow up, young man.”

“Why?” asked Dick in a whiny imitation of Lian Harper.

“If you do not, I will not allow you to get up and go into the garden again today.”

“Again?” Bruce’s eyebrows hiked up as high as they would go.

Alfred sniffed. “Unlike you, sir, I know that Master Dick merely had a relapse and does not need to be informed when he can take a breath.” Dick broke into laughter and Bruce smiled sheepishly.

“You tell him, Alfred!” chuckled Dick. He swung his legs out from beneath the covers and then winced when he stood up. His legs were still a bit shaky first time he got from the bed. “Please tell me its time for dinner?”

“Indeed, it is, which is why I’m here. Since you are back on the road to recovery, Madame Salier has decided that a dinner party celebrating the completion of her family is in order. A small get together of local families who are coming to be introduced to you.” Alfred gave Dick a fond smile. “She is most excited at your discovery of her and is elated that you wish her to be a part of her life.”

Dick smiled back and walked over to Alfred for a hug. “You’ll still be my grandfather in every way, though, Alfie.”

Alfred returned the hug briefly and then straightened his shoulders, as if such sentimentality was beneath him. Dick knew otherwise. “Now then, sir, I have taken the liberty of pressing you a very nice shirt and some pants. Master Bruce, off with you. Yours are on your bed.”

“Yes, master,” Bruce acquiesced and left the room.

“I hope I have the energy for an entire evening, Alfred,” fretted Dick. He’d been uncommonly weak, considering how strong he’d been before his collapse. Doctor Léon assured Dick it was to be expected and to just watch himself.

“I’m certain you shall be fine,” assured Alfred, helping Dick into his shirt and turning the young man around to briskly button the buttons.

“I’m not helpless, as you pointed out to Bruce,” Dick pointed out himself.

“I know. Humor an old man.” Dick sighed and allowed himself to be fussed over by Alfred. It wasn’t often that Alfred would do it, so Dick knew he should enjoy it while he had the opportunity.

Two months earlier Dick remembered being irritated that everyone wanted to do common everyday tasks for him: help him eat, tie his shoes, help him shave, and wash his hair. Now Dick wanted nothing more than to be cosseted and spoiled rotten. As Alfred drew a brush through his hair Dick idly wondered if that were normal.

“I expect so, Master Dick, everyone likes to be spoiled rotten every now and then.” Dick gave a start and Alfred put his hand on his shoulder. “Not aware you were speaking outloud?”

“No,” whispered Dick. “For a minute I thought you were reading my mind.”

“Not difficult, I assure you, especially of late. You’ve been rather transparent to me for some reason.” Alfred finished his ministrations. “There, do whatever is that young men do to make themselves presentable at dinner parties and I shall go and see if Master Bruce has figured out how to work his tie clip.”

Dick’s laughter followed Alfred into the hall.

* * *

“A Gypsy from a circus in America…”

“Handsome young man…”

“Marona’s eyes most definitely…”

The whispers followed Dick around the room as he made his way to his grandmother’s side. Marona, resplendent in a deep wine-colored gown with gold lace trim, beamed and drew him to her. “I would like to introduce to you my lost grandson, Richard John Grayson, Amélie. Richard, this is Amélie Moquin. She is a dear friend of mine who works with the French government regarding immigration.”

“Madam,” Dick took the woman’s hand and bowed over it in a very old-fashioned gentlemanly fashion.

Amélie laughed, charmed. “He is definitely one of yours, Marona. He has your charm and elegance.”

Marona had a distinctly smug look on her face. “He definitely is my grandson, yes.”

“You are Gypsy, then, like Marona?” asked Amélie and then she gave another laugh. “Of course you are!”

Dick smiled. “My grandfather was Gypsy as well, though I understand that Grandmére is Gitane. My grandfather was Ludar. All I have ever known was that I was Rom, which I understand is the incorrect terminology.”

Amélie shrugged. “It almost has become universal now. Rom or Roma or Romany or Gypsy, it is all the same to outsiders. If I asked you san tu Rom? how would you answer?”

Dick did not hesitate. “Hai.”

Amélie smiled. “You see? That is all you need to know. If you were going among the Romani themselves, then you would have to worry about proper bloodties, family lines, clan affiliations and whatnot. As you are not, you should not have to worry.”

“You know a lot about the Romani, then?” Dick asked, intrigued.

“Yes. My great grandfather allowed the Romani to camp on his lands and allowed them to pick the excess vegetables from our gardens in the fall. He admired them greatly and passed on his admiration to the rest of us. When I went to college, I attended with a young woman who was Romani. She had defied her family and run away from home to attend college. Though she had rejected the old ways, she still retained her cultural identity. We were roommates for three years before she got married and moved away. She inspired me to work with minorities and immigration.” Amélie gave Dick a considering look. “We have been getting a lot of Romani across our borders due to the stringent measures against them by eastern European governments. The atrocities they describe, I understand, are not inflated?”

Dick’s lips thinned into a tight line. “They are not,” he confirmed.

Amélie heaved a giant sigh. “I was afraid not. A pity more cannot be done. I understand there are camps now, similar to those that Hitler’s government set up during World War Two. Mankind is the most horrible animal on the planet, especially to his own kind.”

Dick had the impression that Amélie knew nothing or very little of his involvement in Yevestya’s Courts of Miracles and from the innocent expression on his grandmother’s face, she had revealed little. She did have this crafty look on her face that was startlingly similar to the one her son once sported whenever he was up to mischief.

“What are you up to, Grandmére?” he asked her when Amélie excused herself to speak with some other friends.

“ _Moi_?” Marona slipped easily into French. “ _Rien_.” Her eyes told Dick a different story. It wasn’t “nothing”.

“ _Oui, vous êtes jusqu'à quelque chose, je peux le voir_.” You are up to something, I can see it.

Marona gave an actual guffaw, which was an amusing sight coming from a frail looking old woman. Several people smiled at the sound, which was distinctly unladylike. “Ah, Richard, how well bloods knows itself. Yes, I am up to something, as you say.”

“And that would be?”

“We will discuss it later.” Marona gave him a fond smile and a sly wink. “I know more about you than you think, young man.”

Puzzled, Dick allowed Thomas, who had arrived as Marona spoke, tug him away for introductions elsewhere. His mind, however, remained on Marona’s cryptic statement and for some reason it worried Dick endlessly.

* * *

“I have always found the French charming,” commented Alfred at the end of the dinner party. “Despite their reputation as a rude and intractable people, they have a certain charm and pigheadedness that quite puts me in mind of home.”

Everyone laughed. “Don’t tell the English that,” warned Sibylline with a chuckle. “They would be most upset by the comparison.” That drew more laughter.

The Salier family and their American guests were relaxing in the garden; the last of the local partygoers had left a half an hour earlier. The last of the open bottles of wine were being casually consumed and the atmosphere was decidedly comfortable. 

Dick had been avoiding Marona’s gaze for several minutes now and finally the elderly woman cleared her throat meaningfully. “If all of you would excuse an old woman, it is some time past my bedtime. Richard? Would you help me to bed?”

Unable to weasel out of the request and knowing that whatever Marona was up to was about to be revealed, Dick nevertheless graciously held out his arm to his grandmother and they exited the garden. The remaining group continued to chat amiably.

“Now Richard, I know you are wary about what I wish to talk about, but believe me, you are perfectly suited for this task.” Marona’s voice was pitched low enough to not be overheard but loud enough that Dick could make out everything. 

“Grandmére,” chided Dick but Marona interrupted him with an imperiously raised hand.

“Non, listen to me. For someone who has taken foolish risks before and after his parents’ death, who has lived so much, good and bad, you should not be hesitant to listen to me.”

“ _Oui_ , Grandmére,” he said, making sure the family matriarch didn’t lose her balance on the marble stairs.

“I love it when Graysons are so amiable. It is so rare.” Both of them grinned at the other. “Amélie has been interviewing refugees from Eastern Europe. I told her a little of what happened to you, but not in the great detail that you have related to me. Many of these refugees are Romani. Despite some physical setbacks, you seem to be well on the road to recovery.”

Dick immediately saw where this was going. “No.”

Marona stopped when they made the top landing and turned to him. “It will be difficult, I do not doubt that for a moment, but trust an old woman. I have seen more than you know. I live in a country that in some ways is still recuperating from World War II and I am more closely tied to a branch of people who were abused. Believe me, Richard,” she said softly, using the French pronunciation of his name and touching a hand to his cheek, “when I say this will be good for you. You know in your mind that you are not alone in this torment, but your heart argues with you. It hurts so much, I see it in your eyes when you think you don’t need your guard up. You feel so deeply, so passionately, much like I and your grandfather. It is our blood, Richard, that let’s us feel like this. The fire of our souls feeds our hearts. Show your heart that you are not alone, that you can help. You have a position and the resources, emotional, physical and financial, to help them. All I ask is that you go over to Amélie’s clinic sometime this week and see what you can do. If you feel you cannot at this time, I will not pester.” 

Dick stared helplessly at his grandmother. “Grandmére, I –“ He stopped, unable to put his feelings into words.

She smiled sadly and caressed his cheek one more time. “I know, _mon chére_ , I know. It will be very difficult but it is something you must do, or else the doubt and the hurt will eat away at your Gypsy soul.”

“ _Oui_ , Grandmére,” Dick acquiesced. “I will do it, for you.”

“That will have to do, I suppose.” She turned to walk to her bedroom, paused and looked at him again. “I’m glad that you got rid of that ridiculous green and red costume. I never liked that costume when Harry came up with it. It looked so clownish, and the Flying Graysons were always much too professional and talented to be clowns in the air.”

The door closed behind the elderly woman and it was sometime before Dick could get his jaw off the carpet.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Each step was as if he were walking through heavy molasses in wintertime. His heartbeat louder and louder the closer he got to Amélie Moquin’s building. His breath, he was certain, could be heard in Paris, some hundred or so miles away.

Dick had talked Roy and Wally into driving him to Amélie’s clinic, where she had told him she would be reviewing torture victim cases. She had been thrilled to hear that he wanted to come and take a look. A survivor’s point of view, she assured him, especially one who was Romani and American, would be of tremendous value to both her staff and those who came for aid and advice.

Wally had been apprehensive about the trip but, like Roy, completely in favor of whatever Dick thought he had to do to make himself better, both emotionally and physically. The three of them had quite a task calming Bruce, who had been adamantly against it. Alfred too had been brought into the fray and finally, when Dick informed Bruce he was going come hell or high water, the Gotham billionaire backed down. The Saliers had merely watched the fireworks with wary interest. It was apparent to them that Dick had a close family already and were flattered that he wished to include them in it.

With careful directions from Thomas, Roy had driven to the three-story building that served as the clinic where Amélie and her staff interviewed torture victims. The bulk of the patients were Romani or of a dark-skinned race not Romani specifically, but any outsiders to any country also seemed to be included. Most victims came from the countries that formerly made up the western half of the former Soviet Union. It took about a half an hour for Amélie to meet them and she immediately took the trio to her private office.

She looked frazzled, shadows under her eyes. “I apologize,” she said in a tense voice. “We just got an influx of patients from Macedonia and other Balkan states, who are expelling Gypsies in large numbers. None seem to have been physically abused but since we opened our borders to them, they felt obliged to lodge a complaint.”

“Isn’t there some sort of Gypsy rights group out there?” asked Wally, half-jokingly.

Amélie nodded. “Quite a few in fact. The most vocal is the ERRC, the European Roma Rights Center.”

Roy nodded. “Yes, they had a couple of representatives translating when we –“ He stopped abruptly when Dick cleared his throat. “Well, when we’ve involved ourselves on Dick’s behalf.”

Amélie paused for a moment, as if caught in thought, and then her eyes widened. “You *are* Santo Ricardo!”

Dick paled at the name but managed a shaky nod.

“I never realized…” Amélie’s voice trailed off as she stared raptly at Dick a moment. “You,” she ended, “are a legend among your own people now, you realize? For a people who often are clannish and closed, word about the things you did for complete strangers in the Court of Miracles spread quickly. Santo Ricardo is a blessed man.”

“Hardly blessed,” Dick murmured. “Most people would say stupid.”

“Why?” countered Amélie. “Because of what you did? It was somewhat beyond the norm of the bravery often seen in camps, over the top you could agree, but no less remarkable, especially to a people not used to such compassion. You were not raised Roma, Mr. Grayson, but those who have come from the East…” She gave a Gallic shrug, allowing the gesture to finish the sentence for her.

“It wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made,” Dick stated forlornly, fighting back the depression of memories.

“No,” agreed Amélie with no little compassion, “but it likely will be the bravest one.”

Dick gave her a startled look and glanced at his two friends, who were merely slightly smiling and nodding, their eyes filled with the same compassionate grief. “Would you have done the same, Dr. Moquin?” he countered in a calm voice that belief the turmoil just below the surface.

She considered a moment. “No, I don’t think I could have.”

“How about you two?” demanded Dick, turning on Roy and Wally. Both men looked startled but it was Roy who answered.

“I’d like to say yes, Dick, but honest to God, I don’t know. I sincerely hope I’m never in that situation where I have to make such a decision.” Wally only gave a helpless shrug.

There was a long moment of silence while Dick considered everything. Amélie gave it to him willingly but eventually broke the silence. “Undoubtedly you now have an interest in making sure such things do not happen again, in Yevestya or anywhere else.”

“Yes.”

“I can assure you that there are many organizations that have the same interests, but it is hard to interfere, especially with the restrictions brought about by United Nations sanctions, international politics and the like. Some things people like us just cannot work around, no matter how hard we try. Short of military invasions of some countries it is almost impossible. Many Roma refuse to leave their home country, even if the home country is willing to kill them to make them go away. So the best organizations like mine can do is find those who have managed to escape, harmed or unharmed, and help them the best we can.”

“What about the countries that just expel the Roma?” Wally leaned forward. “I understand recently Germany and Macedonia have joined the ranks of countries expelling Gypsies from their countries.”

Amélie sighed. “Yes, and often these expelled people wind up in countries that do far worse to them than just expulsion. These expelled people go where there is family, or where they thought family would be.”

Roy shook his head. “I never understood intolerance, even among my own people.”

Amélie frowned slightly. “The Caucasian race has a long history of intolerance for many reasons, Mr. Harper, you should be used to it just from a quick reading of history.”

Roy gave a wry grin. “I was raised by the Navajo in Arizona, Dr. Moquin. I often think about myself as white only in skin color, though I’ve lost some of my Navajo traditions because they just don’t jibe with white society.”

Amélie blinked at him. “I see. Fascinating. Usually it’s the other way around, an Indian adjusting to white society, not a white boy raised Indian adjusting to a white society.”

“I’ve always been a bit of a contradiction,” laughed Roy.

“Ain’t that the gods truth?” chuckled Dick, having regained his equilibrium back. “Grandmére wanted me here for a specific reason, Amélie, so what would that be?”

Amélie Moquin smiled appreciatively. “Your grandmother is truly a remarkable woman, Richard, truly remarkable. Allow me to introduce you to an assistant of mine.” The doctor punched a button on her intercom, spoke in a rapid fire language that none of the three men understood, though Dick caught an occasional Roma word that he knew.

The door opened and Dick turned to look at the newcomer with Roy and Wally following suit. It took Dick a matter of seconds to recognize the woman tottering into the room.

“Santo Ricardo!” murmured the older woman in shock, covering her mouth with both hands in pleased surprise, her large brown eyes filling with tears. “I thought perhaps you did not make it. You are here for us still!”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Dick’s voice was hoarse even to his own ears. “Esperanza?” he croaked and they fell into each other’s arms. She was crying, petting his hair and murmuring words in Spanish that his mind couldn’t process. “It is you, Esperanza!” 

Roy, Wally and Amélie watched the reunion with teary eyes. There was a bond there that Roy and Wally had never seen before and Amélie had seen only very rarely. After several long moments, the two former victims of the Court of Miracles broke apart, moved to chairs, sat in them and began to talk. Esperanza learned of Dick’s slow recovery, his search for lost family and his relapse. Dick learned of Esperanza’s futile search of other released Miracle camp prisoners for family, her relocation first to Spain and then to work as an interpreter and secretary for Amélie, whom she’d met at a Roma Rights Conference.

“Oh, Ricardo,” sighed Esperanza, tugging on her tight French braid distractedly. “New camps are starting, did you hear? Is that why you are here?” She missed the stunned look that flitted across Dick’s face. “They say they are as bad as the Court of Miracles.”

“Where?” His voice was steel. Roy and Wally immediately reacted to it, having trained themselves years before to react to the modular tones of their former Titans leader. Oftentimes that was the only warning of any move Dick might make in a fight. It was a steely tone they knew very well. It meant Dick had found a mission, something that had roused his ire.

“Another small country, a neighbor to Yevestya, Minastavia, they make similar camps.” Esperanza turned wide-eyes to Richard. “Amélie says you have powerful friends. Can they help us stop these camps before they get to the level of the Courts of Miracles, Ricardo?” 

Dick turned glittery blue eyes to his two friends. Roy was completely impassive; Dick often couldn’t read Roy’s expression when he closed down. Wally was chewing on his bottom lip, a sign that he was thinking, pondering, and more importantly, plotting. Dick immediately knew any fight coming from them would stem more from making sure Dick didn’t go and they did in his place as opposed to anything being done about the new camps.

Whatever Roy and Wally’s decision, Dick knew that this was what he’d been waiting for. A fire began to burn in his gut and every warrior instinct he’d ever felt before rose up inside him like an angel of vengeance. “Don’t worry, Esperanza, I know people who will help. *Lots* of people.”

Roy and Wally exchanged dark looks and Roy stepped forward. “Don’t do anything rash, Dick,” he warned.

“Fuck you, Harper,” Dick snarled back, shoving himself from the chair. “You aren’t stopping me.”

Before Roy could respond, Wally stepped beside him. “Of course we aren’t but if you think you’re going alone, you’re nuts.”

“This isn’t your fight, Wally.”

Wally’s face took on hurt, as did Roy’s. Dick was taken aback at the strength of the emotion on their faces. “That is a hell of thing for you to say to us,” growled Wally of a sudden. “You are our friend, your fights are our fights and if you think you are going in after these clowns without us, you’ve got another think coming!”

“Santo Ricardo.” The ferverent murmur of Dick’s moniker turned all three males to the small Spanish woman. Her brown eyes were huge in her face and burned with bright intensity, as bright as the light in Dick’s own eyes. “If you help those people…will it help you?”

“Yes,” Dick said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Esperanza turned to Roy and Wally. “Will you being by his side give him strength? Give him the power to persevere?”

Wally and Roy gave identical feral grins but it was Roy who answered, “Oh yes, ma’am. You see, he’s the brain, I’m the brawn and Wally’s the heart. Add Donna to the mix, she’s all three by the way, and you’ve got some major amount of judicial ass-kicking getting ready to happen.”

Esperanza looked back to Dick, who was gaping openly at his friends. “The more you take with you, Ricardo, the more ‘ass-kicking’ will happen.”

The whole room smiled and it really wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Fine,” Dick finally acquiesced, “but I’m leaving…soon.”

“That’s good.” Roy continued to grin evilly. “I’d hate to have to wait.”

“Amélie? Esperanza? You’ll hear from us soon.” He hugged Esperanza tightly once more. “There will be funds immediately available to you both in regards to helping any refugees we get from there.” He reverently touched fingers with the small Spanish woman and smiled hugely at the equally tiny French woman. “Come on, boys, we have work to do.”

* * *

“No.”

“I don’t recall asking for permission.”

“I said no.”

“I hate repeating myself too, Bruce.”

There were identical sighs made and Dick’s fellow compatriots in this crusade exchanged grins.

“Fine. Let’s see how smart this is. You’ve just recovered from a severe relapse that physically left you incapacitated. You really haven’t fully confronted what happened to you, just wallowed in it for a long time, blaming everyone but the right people. You’re physically not able to fight because you haven’t retrained your body. Remember what I had to do to get the physical memory back following my backbreaking with Bane?”

Dick turned to look at Bruce. The older man’s experience with Bane wasn’t something that was brought up often. He took in Bruce’s, for once, openly worried expression, his earnestness, and considered for a moment. He then turned to look at Roy and Wally, who also had considering looks on their faces. He then looked to Alfred, who was frowning at Bruce but not a peeved frown; more of a startled one.

“Okay. Fine.” Dick closed his suitcase. “Two weeks. You retrain me. If I’m not at least 90% of my former abilities, I won’t go. I’ll send others in my place.” Everyone relaxed a bit. “But if I’m within that 90%, I go, no arguments, no fights, and with the backup I choose.”

“Back up, hell,” snapped Roy. “I’m not gonna be backup. I’m fighting right next to you, kicking the same kind of ass you are.”

“That was the deal!” chimed in Wally with equal fervor.

“Alright, alright!” Dick shouted over their protests.

“And you just argue with Donna and see how far you get!” added Roy threateningly. “Backup, my ass!”

“Alright, Harper!” Dick growled. He turned back to Bruce. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

Bruce stuck his hand out. “We do. It starts in Gotham.”

* * *

“Grandmére?” Dick stuck his head into his grandmother’s private sitting room. She was reading by the window, the sunshine giving her an ethereal glow.

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. There’s…well, there’s work to be done.” Dick felt awkward telling her such a thing. It felt inadequate.

“ _Bien_.” The frail, petite woman put her book down and stood up. “You are strong, my Richard, just like Harry, just like Johnny. Please, stay in touch. See us often. And be careful, _oui_?”

_“Oui_ ,” Dick murmured and fell into her embrace, breathing the soft perfume and the scent of comfort only grandmothers could make. “ _Je t’adore_.”

“I love you too, _mon petit-fils_.” Marona closed her eyes. “My grandson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a three part series but alas I never got around to writing or even plotting out the last story. If there's enough interest in these, I could be persuaded though. :) Thanks for reading! Keep also in mind that these stories were written at least fifteen years ago, so in comics continuity, they are really outdated but I think they are still enjoyable reads, thus why I finally got off my duff and posted them.


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